'-UNIVERSITY  OF  CAL  FORM  A      AN  D  EGO 


3  182202253  1669 


I  EGO       . 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CAL  FORM  A   SAN  D  EG 


3  182202253  1669 


Social  Sciences  &  Humanities  Library 

University  of  California,  San  Diego 
Please  Note:  This  item  is  subject  to  recall. 

Date  Due 


04  1996 


CI39(2&5) 


UCSDLt. 


THE  ANARCHISTS 


A  PICTURE  OF  CIVILIZATION  AT  THE  CLOSE  OF 
THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 


BY 

JOHN   HENRY  MACKAY 


WITH  A    FORTH  A  IT  OF  THE  AUTHOR,  AND  A   STUDY  OF 
HIS    WORKS  BY  GABRIELE  REUTER 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  GERMAN 
BY   GEORGE  SCHUMM 


BOSTON,   MASS. 

BENJ.   R.   TUCKER,   PUBLISHER 
1891 


COPYRIGHT,  1891, 
BY  BENJ.  R.  TUCKER. 


TYPOGRAPHY  BY  J.  8.  CCSHING  &  Co.,  BOSTON. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

TRANSLATOR'S  PREFACE v 

INTRODUCTION 


CHAPTER  VI. 
THE  EMPIRE  OF  HUNGER 

CHAPTER  VII. 
THE  TRAGEDY  OF  CHICAGO  . 


CHAPTER  I. 
Ix  THE  HEART  OF  THE  WORLD-METROPOLIS      ...          3 

CHAPTER  II. 
THE  ELEVENTH  HOUR 31 

CHAPTER  III. 
THE  UNEMPLOYED  . 


4                                CHAPTER  IV. 
CARRARD  AUBAN     

CHAPTER  V. 
THE  CHAMPIONS  OF  LIBERTY 


Jv  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

PAGE 

THE  PROPAGANDA  OF  COMMUNISM 226 

CHAPTER   IX. 
TRAFALGAR  SQUARE 2o6 

CHAPTER  X. 

27-V 

ANARCHY 


APPENDIX. 
JOHN  HENRY  MACKAY •      29° 


A  large  share  of  whatever  of  merit  this  translation  may 
possess  is  due  to  Miss  /Sarah  E.  Holmes,  who  kindly 
gave  me  her  assistance,  which  I  wish  to  gratefully  acknowl- 
edge here.  My  thanks  are  also  due  to  Mr.  Tucker  for 

valuable  suggestions. 

G.  S. 


INTRODUCTION. 


THE  work  of  art  must  speak  for  the  artist  who 
created  it ;  the  labor  of  the  thoughtful  student  who 
stands  back  of  it  permits  him  to  say  what  impelled 
him  to  give  his  thought  voice. 

The  subject  of  the  work  just  finished  requires  me 
to  accompany  it  with  a  few  words. 


First  of  all,  this :  Let  him  who  does  not  know  me 
and  who  would,  perhaps,  in  the  following  pages, 
look  for  such  sensational  disclosures  as  we  see  in 
those  mendacious  speculations  upon  the  gullibility  of 
the  public  from  which  the  latter  derives  its  sole 
knowledge  of  the  Anarchistic  movement,  not  take 
the  trouble  to  read  beyond  the  first  page. 

In  no  other  field  of  social  life  does  there  exist 
to-day  a  more  lamentable  confusion,  a  more  naive 
superficiality,  a  more  portentous  ignorance  than  in 
that  of  Anarchism.  The  very  utterance  of  the  word 
is  like  the  flourish  of  a  red  rag ;  in  blind  wrath  the 
majority  dash  against  it  without  taking  time  for 
calm  examination  and  consideration.  They  will  tear 

vii 


viii  Introduction. 

into  tatters  this  work,  too,   without  having  under- 
stood it.     Me  their  blows  will  not  strike. 


London  and  the  events  of  the  fall  of  1887  have 
served  me  as  the  background  for  my  picture. 

When  in  the  beginning  of  the  following  year  I 
once  more  returned  to  the  scene  for  a  few  weeks, 
principally  to  complete  my  East  End  studies,  I  did 
not  dream  that  the  very  section  which  I  had  selected 
for  more  detailed  description  would  soon  thereafter 
be  in  everybody's  mouth  in  consequence  of  the 
murders  of  "Jack  the  Ripper." 

I  did  not  finish  the  chapter  on  Chicago  without  first 
examining  the  big  picture-book  for  grown-up  chil- 
dren by  which  the  police  captain,  Michael  Schaack, 
has  since  attempted  to  justify  the  infamous  murder 
committed  by  his  government :  "  Anarchy  and  Anar- 
chists "  (Chicago,  1889).  It  is  nothing  more  than  a 
—  not  unimportant  —  document  of  stupid  brutality 
as  well  as  inordinate  vanity. 

The  names  of  living  people  have  been  omitted  by 
me  in  every  case  with  deliberate  intent ;  nevertheless 
the  initiated  will  almost  always  recognize  without 
difficulty  the  features  that  have  served  me  as  models. 


A  space  of  three  years  has  elapsed  between  the 
writing  of  the  first  chapter  and  the  last.  Ever  newly 
rising  doubts  compelled  me  again  and  again,  often 
for  a  long  period,  to  interrupt  the  work.  Perhaps  I 
began  it  too  soon ;  I  do  not  finish  it  too  late. 

Not   every   phase   of   the  question  could  I  treat 


Introduction.  ix 

exhaustively;  for  the  most  part  I  could  not  offer 
more  than  the  conclusions  of  chains  of  reasoning, 
often  very  long.  The  complete  incompatibility  of 
the  Anarchistic  and  the  Communistic  Weltanschau- 
ung,1 the  uselessness  and  harmfulness  of  a  resort 
to  violent  tactics,  as  well  as  the  impossibility  of  any 
"solution  of  the  social  question"  whatsoever  by  the 
State,  at  least  I  hope  to  have  demonstrated. 


The  nineteenth  century  has  given  birth  to  the  idea 
of  Anarchy.  In  its  fourth  decade  the  boundary  line 
between  the  old  world  of  slavery  and  the  new  world 
of  liberty  was  drawn.  For  it  was  in  this  decade  that 
P.  J.  Proudhon  began  the  titanic  labor  of  his  life 
with  "Qu'est-ce  que  la  proprie'te' ?  "  (1840),  and  that 
Max  Stirner  wrote  his  immortal  work :  "  Der  Einzige 
und  sein  Eigenthum  "  (1845). 

It  was  possible  for  this  idea  to  be  buried  under 
the  dust  of  a  temporary  relapse  of  civilization.  But 
it  is  imperishable. 

It  is  even  now  again  awake. 

For  more  than  seven  years  my  friend  Benj.  R. 
Tucker  of  Boston  has  been  battling  for  Anarchy  in 
the  new  world  with  the  invincible  weapon  of  his 
"Liberty."  Oft  in  the  lonely  hours  of  my  struggles 
have  I  fixed  my  gaze  upon  the  brilliant  light  that 
thence  is  beginning  to  illumine  the  night. 


When  three  years  ago  I  gave  the  poems  of  my 

1  \Veltanschauuny  :  world  view. 


x  Introduction. 

"Sturm"  to  the  public,  I  was  hailed  by  friendly 
voices  as  the  "first  singer  of  Anarchy." 

I  am  proud  of  this  name. 

But  I  have  come  to  the  conviction  that  what  is 
needed  to-day  is  not  so  much  to  arouse  enthusiasm 
for  liberty  as  rather  to  convince  people  of  the  abso- 
lute necessity  of  economic  independence,  without 
which  it  will  eternally  remain  the  unsubstantial 
dream  of  visionaries. 

In  these  days  of  the  growing  reaction,  which  will 
culminate  in  the  victory  of  State  Socialism,  the  call 
has  become  imperative  upon  me  to  be  here  also  the 
first  champion  of  the  Anarchistic  idea.  I  hope  I 
have  not  yet  broken  my  last  lance  for  liberty. 

JOHN  HENRY  MACKAY. 

ROME,  in  the  spring,  1891. 


THE  ANARCHISTS. 


A  PICTURE  OF  CIVILIZATION  AT  THE  CLOSE 
OF  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY. 


CHAPTER  I. 

IN  THE   HEAET   OF   THE   WORLD-METKOPOLIS. 

A  WET,  cold  October  evening  was  beginning  to 
lower  upon  London.  It  was  the  October  of  the  same 
year  in  which,  not  five  months  before,  had  been 
inaugurated  those  ridiculous  celebrations  which  gave 
the  year  1887  the  name  of  the  "Jubilee  Year,"  — 
celebrations  of  the  fiftieth  anniversary  of  the  rule  of 
a  woman  who  allows  herself  to  be  called  "  Queen  of 
Great  Britain  and  Ireland,  and  Empress  of  India." 
On  this  evening  —  the  last  of  the  week  • —  a  man 
coming  from  the  direction  of  Waterloo  Station  was 
wending  his  way  to  the  railroad  bridge  of  Charing 
Cross  through  labyrinthine,  narrow,  and  almost  de- 
serted streets.  When,  as  if  fatigued  from  an  extended 
walk,- he  had  slowly  ascended  the  wooden  steps  that 
lead  to  the  narrow  walk  for  pedestrians  running 
beside  the  tracks  on  the  bridge,  and  had  gone  about 
as  far  as  the  middle  of  the  river,  he  stepped  into  one 
of  the  round  recesses  fronting  the  water  and  remained 
standing  there  for  a  short  time,  while  he  allowed  the 
crowd  behind  him  to  push  on.  Rather  from  habit 
than  genuine  fatigue,  he  stopped  and  looked  down 
the  Thames.  As  he  had  but  seldom  been  on  "the 
other  side  of  the  Thames, "  notwithstanding  his  already 
three  years'  sojourn  in  London,  he  never  failed,  on 
crossing  one  of  the  bridges,  to  enjoy  afresh  the  mag- 
nificent view  that  London  affords  from  them. 

It  was  still  just  light  enough  for  him  to  recognize, 
as  far  as  Waterloo  Bridge  to  his  right,  the  dark 
masses  of  warehouses,  and  on  the  mirror  of  the 


4  The  Anarchists. 

Thames  at  his  feet,  the  rows  of  broad-bellied  freight 
boats  and  rafts  coupled  together,  though  already  the 
lights  of  the  evening  were  everywhere  blazing  into 
the  dark,  yawning  chaos  of  this  immense  city.  The 
two  rows  of  lanterns  on  Waterloo  Bridge  stretched 
away  like  parallel  lines,  and  each  of  the  lanterns 
cast  its  sharp,  glittering  light,  deep  and  long,  into 
the  dark,  trembling  tide,  while  to  the  left,  in  a  terrace- 
shaped  ascent,  the  countless  little  flames  which  illu- 
mine the  Embankments,  and  the  Strand  with  its 
surroundings,  every  evening,  were  beginning  to 
flash.  The  quiet  observer  standing  there  saw  yonder 
on  the  bridge  the  fleeting  lights  of  the  cabs ;  to  his 
rear  he  heard  the  trains  of  the  South  East  road  rum- 
bling and  roaring  while  madly  rushing  in  and  out  of 
the  station  of  Charing  Cross;  saw  beneath  him  the 
lazy  waves  of  the  Thames,  with  almost  inaudible 
splashing,  lapping  against  the  dark,  black,  slimy 
masses  stretching  far  into  the  deep ;  and  as  he  turned 
to  pass  on,  the  gigantic  station  of  Charing  Cross, 
that  centre  of  a  never-ceasing  life  by  night  and  by 
day,  opened  before  him,  flooded  by  the  white  glare 
of  the  electric  light.  .  .  . 

He  thought  of  Paris,  his  native  city,  as  he  slowly 
passed  on.  What  a  difference  between  the  broad, 
level,  and  clear  embankments  of  the  Seine  and  these 
stiff,  projecting  masses,  on  which  not  even  the  sun 
could  produce  a  ray  of  joy  ! 

He  longed  to  be  back  in  the  city  of  his  youth. 
But  he  had  learned  to  love  London  with  the  passion- 
ate, jealous  love  of  obstinacy. 

For  one  either  loves  London  or  hates  it.  ... 

Again  the  wanderer  stopped.  So  brightly  was  the 
gigantic  station  illumined  that  he  could  plainly  see 
the  clock  at  its  end.  The  hands  stood  between  the 
seventh  and  the  eighth  hours.  The  bustle  on  the 
sidewalk  seemed  to  have  increased,  as  if  a  human 
wave  was  being  washed  from  the  one  side  to  the 
other.  It  seemed  as  if  the  hesitating  loiterer  could 


In  the  Heart  of  the  World-Metropolis.  5 

not  tear  himself  away.  For  a  moment  he  watched 
the  incessant  play  of  the  signals  at  the  entrance  of 
the  station;  then,  across  the  tracks  and  through  the 
confusion  of  iron  posts  and  cars,  he  tried  to  reach 
Westminster  Abbey  with  his  eye ;  but  he  could  not 
recognize  anything  except  the  shimmering  dial  on 
the  steeple  of  Parliament  House  and  the  dark  out- 
lines of  gigantic  masses  of  stone  that  arose  beyond. 
And  scattered  in  every  direction  the  thousands  and 
thousands  of  lights.  .  .  . 

Again  he  turned  to  the  open  place  where  he  had 
before  been  standing.  Beneath  his  feet  the  trains 
of  the  Metropolitan  Railway  were  rolling  along  with 
a  dull  rumbling  noise;  the  entire  expanse  of  the 
Victoria  Embankment  lay  beneath  him,  half  illu- 
mined as  far  as  Waterloo  Bridge.  Stiff  and  severe, 
Cleopatra's  Needle  rose  in  the  air. 

From  below  came  to  the  man's  ears  the  laughing 
and  singing  of  the  young  fellows  and  the  girls  who 
nightly  monopolize  the  benches  of  the  Embankments. 
"Do  not  forget  me  —  do  not  forget  me,"  was  the 
refrain.  Their  voices  sounded  hard  and  shrill.  "  Do 
not  forget  me  "  —  one  could  hear  it  everywhere  in 
London  during  the  Jubilee  Year.  It  was  the  song 
of  the  day.  . 

If  anybody  had  observed  the  features  of  the  man 
who  was  just  now  bending  over  the  edge  of  the 
bridge,  he  would  not  have  failed  to  catch  a  strange 
expression  of  severity  that  suddenly  possessed  them. 
The  pedestrian  no  longer  heard  anything  of  the  now 
suppressed,  now  subdued  noise  and  the  trivial  song. 
Again  a  thought  had  seized  him  at  the  sight  of  the 
mighty  quays  at  his  feet;  how  many  human  lives 
might  lie  crushed  beneath  these  white  granite  quar- 
ries, piled  one  upon  the  other  so  solid  and  uncon- 
querable? And  he  thought  again  of  that  silent, 
unrewarded,  forgotten  toil  that  had  created  all  the 
magnificence  round  about  him. 

Sweat  and  blood  are  washed  away,  and  the  indi- 


G  The  Anarchists. 

vidual  man,  on  the  corpses  of  millions  of  unnamed, 
forgotten  ones,  rises  living  and  admired.  .  .  . 

As  if  goaded  by  this  thought,  Carrard  Auban  passed 
on.  Leaving  behind  him  the  stony  arches  at  the 
end  of  the  bridge,  — the  remains  of  the  old  Hunger- 
ford  Suspension  Bridge,  —  he  looked  down  and  walked 
faster.  Again  as  always  he  lived  in  the  thoughts  to 
which  he  also  had  dedicated  the  youth  of  his  life, 
and  again  he  was  impressed  by  the  boundless  gran- 
deur of  this  movement  which  the  second  half  of  the 
nineteenth  century  has  named  the  "  social  " :  to  carry 
the  light  where  darkness  still  prevails  —  among  the 
toiling,  oppressed  masses  whose  sufferings  and  slow 
death  give  life  to  "the  others."  .  .  . 

But  when  Auban  had  descended  the  steps  of  the 
bridge  and  found  himself  in  Villiers  Street,  that 
remarkable  little  street  which  leads  from  the  Strand 
down  past  the  city  station  of  Charing  Cross,  he 
became  again  fascinated  by  the  bustling  life  around 
him.  Incessantly  it  was  surging  past  him:  this  one 
wanted  to  catch  the  train  which  had  just  discharged 
those  who  were  hurrying  towards  the  Strand  —  be- 
lated theatre-goers  who  had  perhaps  again  miscal- 
culated the  distances  of  London;  here  a  prostitute 
was  talking  at  a  gentleman  with  a  silk  hat,  whom 
she  had  enticed  hither  by  a  word  and  a  look  of  her 
weary  eyes,  in  order  to  come  to  an  agreement  with 
him  concerning  the  "price";  and  there  a  crowd  of 
hungry  street  urchins  were  pushing  their  dirty  faces 
against  the  window  panes  of  an  Italian  waffle-baker, 
greedily  following  every  movement  of  the  untiring 
worker.  Auban  saw  everything:  he  had  the  same 
attention  of  a  practised  eye  for  the  ten-year-old 
youngster  who  was  seeking  to  beg  a  penny  of  the 
passers-by  by  turning  wheels  before  them  on  the 
moist  pavement,  and  for  the  debased  features  of 
the  fellow  who,  when  he  came  to  a  halt,  instantly 
obtruded  himself  on  him  and  tried  to  talk  him  into 
buying  the  latest  number  of  the  "Matrimonial  News" 


In  the  Heart  of  the  World-Metropolis.  7 

—  "indispensable  for  all  who  wished  to  marry" 
but  immediately  turned  to  the  next  man  when  he 
found  that  he  got  no  answer. 

Auban  passed  slowly  on.  He  knew  this  life  too 
well  to  be  confused  and  stupefied  by  it ;  and  yet  it 
seized  and  interested  him  ever  anew  with  all  its 
might.  He  had  devoted  hours  and  days  to  its  study 
during  these  years,  and  always  and  everywhere  he 
found  it  new  and  interesting.  And  the  more  he 
learned  to  know  its  currents,  its  depths,  and  its  shal- 
lows, the  more  he  admired  this  matchless  city.  For 
some  time  this  affection,  which  was  more  than  an 
attachment  and  less  than  love,  had  been  growing  into 
a  passionately  excited  one.  London  had  shown  him 
too  much  —  much  more  than  to  the  inhabitant  and 
the  visitor;  and  now  he  wished  to  see  all.  And  so 
the  restlessness  of  this  wish  had  driven  him  in  the 
afternoon  of  this  day  to  the  other  side  of  the  Thames, 
for  extended  wanderings  in  Kennington  and  Lam- 
beth —  those  quarters  of  a  frightful  misery,  —  to 
allow  him  to  return  fatigued  and  .at  the  same  time 
discouraged  and  embittered,  and  to  show  him  now 
in  the  Strand  the  reflection  as  well  as  the  reverse  of 
that  life. 

He  was  now  standing  at  the  entrance  of  the  dark 
and  desolate  tunnel  which  passes  underneath  Cha- 
ing  Cross  and  leads  to  Northumberland  Avenue. 
The  shrill  and  vibrant  sounds  of  a  banjo  struck  his 
ear;  a  group  of  passers-by  had  collected:  in  their 
midst  a  boy  in  a  ragged  caricature  costume  and  with 
blackened  face  was  playing  his  instrument  —  who 
has  not  seen  the  bizarre  forms  of  these  "  negro  come- 
dians "  executing  their  noisy  song-dances  at  the 
street  corners  of  London  ?  —  while  a  girl  "was  dancing 
to  the  sounds  of  the  same  with  that  mechanical 
indifference  which  seems  to  know  no  fatigue.  Forc- 
ing his  way  along,  Auban  cast  a  glance  also  at  the 
face  of  this  child :  indifference  and  at  the  same  time 
a  certain  impatience  lay  upon  it. 


8  The  Anarchists. 

"  They  support  their  whole  family,  poor  things ! '' 
he  murmured.  The  next  minute  the  crowd  had  dis- 
persed, and  the  little  couple  forced  their  way  to  the 
next  street  corner,  there  to  begin  anew,  play  and 
dance,  until  the  policeman,  hated  and  feared,  drove 
them  away. 

Auban  passed  through  the  tunnel  whose  stone  floor 
was  covered  with  filth  and  out  of  whose  corners  rose 
a  corrupt  atmosphere.  It  was  almost  deserted;  only 
now  and  then  some  unrecognizable  form  crept  along 
the  walls  and  past  him.  But  Auban  knew  that  on 
wet,  cold  days  arid  nights,  here  as  well  as  in  hun- 
dreds of  other  passage  ways,  whole  rows  of  unfortu- 
nates were  lying  about,  closely  pressed  against  each 
other  and  against  the  cold  walls,  and  always  expect- 
ing to  be  driven  away  the  next  moment  by  the  "  strong 
arm  of  the  law":  heaps  of  filth  and  rags,  ruined  in 
hunger  and  dirt,  the  "  Pariahs  of  society, "  creatures 
in  truth  devoid  of  will.  .  .  .  And  while  he  was  climb- 
ing the  steps  at  the  end  of  the  gloomy  passage,  a  scene 
which  he  had  witnessed  on  this  same  spot  about  a 
year  previous,  suddenly  rose  before  him  with  such 
terrific  clearness  that  he  involuntarily  stopped  and 
looked  round  as  if  it  must  repeat  itself  bodily  before 
his  eyes. 

It  was  on  a  damp,  cold  evening,  towards  midnight, 
the  city  enveloped  by  fog  and  smoke  as  by  an  impen- 
etrable veil.  He  had  come  hither  to  give  some  of 
the  shelterless  the  few  coppers  which  they  need  in 
order  to  pass  the  night  in  a  lodging-house,  instead 
of  in  the  icy  cold  of  the  open  air.  When  he  had 
descended  these  steps,  —  the  tunnel  was  overcrowded 
by  people  who,  after  they  had  passed  through  all  the 
stages  of  misery,  had  reached  the  last,  —  he  saw  a 
face  rise  before  him  which  he  had  never  since  forgot- 
ten :  the  features  of  a  woman,  frightfully  disfigured 
by  leprosy  and  bloody  sores,  who,  with  an  infant  at 
her  breast,  was  dragging,  rather  than  leading,  a 
fourteen-year-old  girl  by  the  hand,  while  a  third 
child,  a  boy,  was  clinging  to  her  dress. 


In  the  Heart  of  the  World-Metropolis.  9 

"Two  shillings  only,  gentleman;  two  shillings 
only!" 

He  stopped  to  question  her. 

"Two  shillings  only;  she  is  still  so  young,  but 
she  will  do  anything  you  want,"  and  with  that  sh'e 
drew  the  girl  near,  who  turned  away,  trembling  and 
crying. 

A  shudder  ran  through  him.  But  the  beseeching 
and  piteous  voice  of  the  woman  kept  on. 

"Pray,  do  take  her  along.  If  you  won't  do  it, 
we  shall  have  to  sleep  out  doors,  —  only  two  shil- 
lings, gentleman,  only  two  shillings;  just  see  how 
pretty  she  is ! "  And  again  she  drew  the  child  to 
her. 

Auban  felt  a  terror  creeping  over  him.  Stunned 
and  unable  to  speak  a  word,  he  turned  to  pass  on. 

But  he  had  not  yet  gone  a  step,  when  the  woman 
suddenly  threw  herself  shrieking  before  him  on  the 
ground,  let  go  of  the  girl,  and  clung  to  him. 

"Don't  go  away  !  Don't  go  away  !  "  she  screamed 
in  frightful  despair.  "If  you  won't  do  it,  we  must 
starve  —  take  her  along !  —  no  one  else  will  come  here 
to-night,  and  in  the  Strand  we  are  not  allowed  — 
please  do  it  —  please  do  it  ! " 

But  when,  without  intending  to,  he  looked  round, 
the  woman  lying  before  him  suddenly  sprang  up. 

"Don't  call  a  policeman!  No,  don't  call  a  police- 
man !  "  she  cried  quickly,  in  fear.  Then,  when  she 
arose,  Auban  regained  his  composure.  Without  a 
word  he  reached  into  his  pocket  and  gave  her  a 
handful  of  money. 

The  woman  uttered  a  shout  of  joy.  Again  she 
took  the  girl  by  the  arm  and  placed  her  before  him. 

"  She  will  go  with  you,  gentleman  —  she  will  do 
anything  you  want,"  she  added  in  a  whisper.  Auban 
turned  away,  and  hurried  as  quickly  as  possible 
through  the  rows  of  the  sleeping  and  the  drunken 
people  towards  the  exit :  no  one  had  paid  any  atten- 
tion to  the  scene. 


10  The  Anarchists. 

When  he  reached  the  Strand,  he  felt  how  violently 
his  heart  was  beating,  and  how  his  hands  were 
trembling. 

A  week  later  he  came  evening  after  evening  to 
search  in  the  tunnel  of  Charing  Cross  and  its  sur- 
roundings for  the  woman  and  her  children,  without 
being  able  to  find  them  again.  There  had  been 
something  in  the  eyes  of  the  girl  that  disquieted 
him.  But  the  time  had  been  too  short  for  him  to 
discern  what  this  abyss  of  fear  and  miseiy  concealed. 

At  last  he  became  so  absorbed  in  thinking  of  the 
immense  wretchedness  that  daily  presented  itself  to 
him  that  he  forgot  this  one  scene,  and  daily  he  saw 
again  upon  the  streets  the  children  of  poverty  - 
children  of  thirteen  and  fourteen  years  —  offering 
themselves — and  he  was  unable  to  help. 

Who  was  more  to  be  pitied,  the  mother  or  the  chil- 
dren ?  How  great  must  be  the  misery,  how  frightful 
the  despair,  how  insane  the  hunger,  that  impelled 
both!  But  the  woman  of  the  bourgeoisie  speaks 
with  loathing  of  the  "  monster  of  a  mother "  and  of 
the  "degraded  child,"  —  the  Pharisee  who  under  the 
weight  of  the  same  misery  would  travel  exactly  the 
same  paths. 

Pity  !  Most  miserable  of  all  our  lies  !  This  age 
knows  only  injustice.  It  is  to-day  the  greatest 
crime  to  be  poor.  Very  well.  The  more  quickly 
must  the  perception  come  that  our  only  deliverance 
consists  in  omitting  this  crime. 

"  The  insane  ones !  "  murmured  Auban,  "  the  insane 
ones !  —  they  do  not  see  whither  pity  and  love  have 
brought  us."  His  eyes  were  dimmed,  as  if  by  the 
memory  of  the  struggles  which  this  perception  had 
caused  him. 

How  plainly,  in  passing  through  the  tunnel  this 
evening,  did  he  recall  the  piteous,  despairing  voice 
of  the  woman  and  her  urgent:  "Do  it!  do  it!" 
And  again  out  of  the  gloomy  darkness  emerged  the 
shy,  sickly  eyes  of  the  child. 


In  the  Heart  of  the  World-Metropolis.          11 

He  turned  round,  and  again  passed  through  the 
tunnel.  But  before  starting  for  the  Strand,  he 
turned  into  one  of  the  side  streets  that  lead  down 
towards  the  Thames.  He  knew  them  all:  these 
streets,  these  corners,  these  entrances  and  alleys: 
here  was  the  sober-gray  rear  of  a  theatre  whose  front 
flooded  the  Strand  with  light;  and  yonder  narrow 
three-storied  house  with  the  sham  windows  was  one 
of  those  notorious  resorts  whose  inner  walls  nightly 
witness  scenes  of  depravity  such  as  even  the  most 
degraded  fancy  dare  not  fully  picture  to  itself.  Here 
misery  still  lived,  and,  in  yonder  quiet  street  hard 
by,  comfort,  — and  thus  the  two  alternated  as  far  as 
the  little  church  of  Savoy  in  the  midst  of  its  bare 
trees  —  and  as  far  as  the  aristocratic,  exclusive  edifices 
of  the  Temple  with  its  splendid  gardens.  .  .  . 

Auban  knew  all ;  even  the  forever-deserted  broad, 
vaulted  passage  which  leads  underneath  the  streets 
to  the  Embankments,  and  from  whose  forsaken, 
mysterious  stillness  the  life  of  the  Strand  sounds 
like  the  distant  dying  rush  and  roar  of  an  ever  last 
and  ever  first  wave  upon  a  desolate,  sandy  shore.  .  .  . 

The  cold  became  more  piercing  as  the  hour  fled, 
and  trickled  down  in  the  foggy  dampness  of  London. 
Auban  was  getting  tired,  and  decided  to  go  home. 
He  turned  towards  the  Strand. 

The  "  Strand  !  "  Connecting  the  West  End  and 
the  city,  it  lay  before  him,  lit  up  by  the  countless 
lights  of  its  shops,  filled  with  the  rush  of  a  never- 
stagnant  and  never-ceasing  human  tide ;  two  separate 
streams,  the  one  surging  up  to  St.  Paul's,  the  other 
down  to  Charing  Cross.  Between  both,  the  deafen- 
ing confusion  of  an  uninterrupted  traffic  of  vehicles ; 
one  after  another,  'busses,  clumsy,  covered  with  gaudy 
advertisements,  filled  with  people ;  one  after  another, 
hansoms,  light,  running  along  easily  on  two  wheels ; 
thundering  freight  wagons ;  red,  closed  mail  coaches 
of  the  Royal  Mail ;  strong,  broad  four-wheelers ;  and 
winding  their  way  through  all  these,  hardly  recog- 
nizable in  the  dark  mass,  swiftly  gliding  bicycles. 


12  The  Anarchists. 

The  East  End  is  labor  and  poverty,  chained  to- 

Ssther  by  the  curse  of  our  time  —  servitude;  the 
ity  is  the  usurer  who  sells  labor  and  pockets  the 
profit;  the  West  End  is  the  aristocratic  idler  who 
consumes  it.  The  Strand  is  one  of  the  most  swollen 
arteries  through  which  courses  the  blood  turned  into 
money ;  it  is  the  rival  of  Oxford  Street,  and  struggles 
against  being  conquered  by  it.  It  is  the  heart  of 
London.  It  bears  a  name  which  the  world  knows. 
It  is  one  of  the  few  streets  where  you  see  people 
from  all  sections  of  the  city;  the  poor  takes  his  rags 
there,  and  the  rich  his  silk.  If  you  lend  your  ear, 
you  can  hear  the  languages  of  the  whole  world ;  the 
restaurants  have  Italian  proprietors,  whose  waiters 
talk  French  with  you ;  more  than  half  of  the  prosti- 
tutes are  Germans,  who  either  perish  here  or  save 
enough  to  return  to  their  fatherland,  and  become 
"  respectable  "  there. 

Along  the  Strand  are  located  the  immense  court 
buildings,  and  one  is  puzzled  to  know  whether  these 
are  actors  or  lunatics  whom  one  sees  passing  under 
the  lofty  archways  —  the  judges  in  their  long  cloaks 
and  their  powdered  wigs  with  the  neatly  ridiculous 
cues  —  respectable  badges  of  a  disreputable  farce 
which  every  sensible  man  in  his  heart  scorns  and 
despises,  and  in  which  everybody  plays  a  part  if  he 
is  called;  and  in  its  cold  Somerset  House  the  Strand 
gathers  a  bewildering  number  of  magistrates  of  whose 
existence  you  have  never  heard  in  your  life  until 
you  hear  them  mentioned;  and  the  Strand  has  its 
theatres,  more  theatres  than  any  other  street  in  the 
world. 

Thus  it  is  the  first  walk  of  the  stranger  who  arrives 
at  the  station  of  Charing  Cross,  and  whom  its  mostly 
narrow  and  crowding  buildings  disappoint;  so  will 
it  be  his  last  when  he  leaves  London, "the  one  to 
which  he  will  give  his  last  hour. 

Auban  disappeared  in  the  sea  of  humanity.  Now 
as  he  was  passing  the  Adelphi,  and  the  electric 


In  the  Heart  of  the  World-Metropolis.          13 

light  —  far  eclipsing  the  gas-jets  —  was  filling  the 
street  with  its  clear  white  radiance,  one  could  see 
that  he  limped  slightly.  It  was  hardly  noticeable 
when  he  walked  rapidly;  but  when  he  sauntered 
along  slowly,  he  dragged  the  left  foot  slightly,  and 
supported  himself  more  on  his  cane. 

At  the  station  of  Charing  Cross  the  crowd  had 
become  blocked.  For  a  few  moments  Auban  stcod 
near  one  of  the  gates.  The  gate  nearest  Villieis 
Street,  which  a  few  minutes  ago  he  had  crossed  fur- 
ther down,  was  besieged  by  flower-girls,  some  of 
whom  were  cowering  behind  their  half-empty  baskets, 
cold  and  worn  out,  and  some  trying  to  persuade  the 
passers-by  to  purchase  their  poor  flowers,  with  their 
incessant  "Penny  a  bunch!"  A  policeman  pushed 
one  of  them  brutally  back;  she  had  ventured  to  take 
a  step  upon  the  pavement,  and  they  were  not  allowed 
to  go  an  inch  beyond  the  limits  of  the  side  street. 
The  shrill  cries  of  the  newsboys  who  wished  to  get 
rid  of  their  last  special  editions,  in  order  to  be  able 
to  see  Charlie  Coborn  • — the  "inimitable"  —  in  his 
"Two  Lovely  Black  Eyes"  in  "Gatti's  Hungerford 
Palace,"  would  have  been  unbearable,  had  they  not 
been  drowned  by  the  hoarse  cries  of  the  omnibus 
conductors  and  the  rumble  and  clatter  of  wheels  on 
the  stones  of  the  Charing  Cross  entrance,  which  the 
West  Ender,  accustomed  to  asphaltum  and  wooden 
pavements,  has  almost  forgotten. 

With  a  confidence  which  only  a  long  familiarity 
with  the  street  life  of  a  great  city  can  give,  Auban 
improved  the  first  second  in  which  the  rows  of  wagons 
offered  a  passage  across  the  street;  and  while  in  the 
next  the  tides  closed  behind  him,  he  passed  the 
Church  of  St.  Martin,  cast  a  glance  upon  Trafalgar- 
Square  reposing  in  the  stillness  of  the  grave,  cut 
through  the' narrow  and  dark  Green  Street  without 
paying  any  attention  to  the  "  cabby, "  who  from  his 
box  was  calling  at  him  in  a  suppressed  voice  that  he 
had  "  something  to  say  "  —  something  about  "  a  young 


14  The  Anarchists. 

lady"  —  and  found  himself  three  minutes  later  in 
the  lighted  lobbies  of  the  "  Alhambra, "  from  which 
belated  frequenters  would  not  allow  themselves  to 
be  turned  away,  as  they  still  hoped  to  secure  stand- 
ing room  in  the  overcrowded  house.  Auban  passed 
indifferently  on,  without  glancing  at  the  shining 
photographs  of  the  voluptuous  ballet-dancers  —  ad- 
vertising specimens  from  the  new  monster  ballet 
"Algeria,"  to  which  half  of  London  was  flocking. 

The  garden  in  the  middle  of  Leicester  Square  lay 
shrouded  in  darkness.  From  the  gratings  the  statue 
of  Shakspere  was  no  longer  recognizable.  "There 
is  no  darkness  but  ignorance,"  was  graven  there. 
Who  read  it? 

The  north  end  of  the  square  was  the  scene  of  a 
boisterous  life.  Auban  had  to  force  his  way  through 
crowds  of  French  prostitutes,  whose  loud  laughter, 
screaming,  and  scolding,  drowned  everything.  Their 
gaudy  and  vulgar  dresses,  their  shameless  offers, 
their  endless  entreaties:  "Che'ri,  che'ri,"  with  which 
they  approached  and  followed  every  passer-by,  re- 
minded him  of  the  midnight  hours  on  the  outer 
boulevards  of  Paris. 

Everywhere  this  age  seemed  to  show  him  the  most 
disfigured  side  of  its  face. 

Before  him  two  young  English  girls  were  walk- 
ing along.  They  Avere  scarcely  more  than  sixteen 
years  old.  Their  dishevelled  blond  hair,  wet  from 
the  moisture  in  the  atmosphere, "  was  hanging  far 
over  their  shoulders.  As  they  turned  round,  a  look 
into  their  pale,  weary  features  told  him  that  they 
had  long  been  wandering  thus  —  forever  the  same 
short  distance,  evening  after  evening;  at  a  street 
corner  a  German  woman  with  the  Cologne  dialect 
and  a  far-sounding  voice  —  all  Germans  shout  in 
London  —  was  telling  another  that  she  had  not  eaten 
anything  warm  for  three  days  and  nothing  at  all 
for  one :  business  was  growing  worse  and  worse ;  at 
the  next  a  crowd  was  gathering,  into  which  Auban 


In  the  Heart  of  the  World-Metropolis.          15 

was  pushed,  so  that  he  had  to  witness  the  scene  that 
took  place:  an  old  woman  who  was  selling  match- 
boxes had  got  into  a  quarrel  with  one  of  the  women. 
They  screamed  at  each  other.  "There,"  shrieked 
the  old  one,  and  spat  in  the  face  of  the  other  before 
her,  but  at  the  same  instant  the  indignity  was  re- 
turned. For  a  moment  both  stood  speechless  with 
wrath.  The  old  one,  trembling,  put  the  boxes  in 
the  bag.  Then,  amid  the  wild  applause  of  the  spec- 
tators, they  thrust  their  finger-nails  in  each  other's 
eyes  and,  blackguarding  each  other,  rolled  on  the 
ground,  until  one  of  the  spectators  separated  them; 
whereupon  they  picked  up  their  things, —  the  one  her 
broken  umbrella,  the  other  her  rag  of  a  hat, —  and 
the  crowd  laughingly  dispersed  in  all  directions. 

Auban  passed  on,  towards  the  Piccadilly  Circus. 
This  scene,  one  among  countless, —  what  was  it  other 
than  a  new  proof  that  the  method  of  keeping  the 
people  in  brutality,  in  order  to  talk  about  the  "mob  " 
and  its  degeneracy,  was  still  very  successful  ? 

Music  halls  and  boxing-matches, — these  occupy  the 
few  free  hours  of  the  poorer  classes  of  England;  on 
Sundays  prayers  and  sermons :  excellent  means  against 
"the  most  dangerous  evil  of  the  time,"  the  awaken- 
ing of  the  people  to  intellectual  independence. 

Involuntarily  Auban  struck  the  ground  with  his 
cane,  which  he  held  in  a  firm  grasp. 

The  square  which  he  had  just  left,  Piccadilly,  and 
Regent  Street, —  these  are  evening  after  evening  and 
night  after  night  the  busiest  and  most  frequented 
markets  of  living  flesh  for  London.  Hither  the  mis- 
ery of  the  metropolis,  assisted  by  the  "civilized" 
states  of  the  Continent,  throws  a  supply  which 
exceeds  even  an  insatiable  demand.  From  the 
beginning  of  dusk  until  the  dawn  of  the  new  day 
prostitution  sways  the  life  of  these  centres  of  traffic, 
and  seems  to  constitute  the  axis  around  which  every- 
thing exclusively  revolves. 
.  How  beautifully  convenient  the  leaders  of  public 


16  The  Anarchists. 

life  arrange  things  for  themselves,  mused  Auban.  If 
their  reason  brings  up  before  a  barn  door,  and  they 
can  go  no  farther,  they  instantly  say:  a  necessary  evil. 
Poverty — a  necessary  evil;  prostitution  —  a  neces- 
sary evil.  And  yet  there  is  no  less  necessary  and  no 
greater  evil  than  they  themselves  !  It  is  they  who 
would  order  all  things,  and  who  put  all  things  into 
the  greatest  disorder;  who  would  guide  all  things, 
and  who  divert  all  things  from  their  natural  paths ; 
who  would  advance  all  things,  and  who  hinder  all 
progress.  .  .  .  They  have  big  books  written, —  it  has 
ever  been  so,  and  must  ever  remain  so;  and,  in  order, 
nevertheless,  to  do  something,  at  least  seemingly,  they 
devote  themselves  to  "reform."  And  the  more  they 
reform,  the  worse  things  get.  They  see  it,  but 
they  do  not  wish  to  see  it ;  they  know  it,  but  they 
dare  not  know  it.  Why  ?  They  would  then  become 
useless,  and  nowadays  everybody  must  make  himself 
useful.  A  life  of  mere  material  ease  will  no  longer 
suffice.  "  Deceived  deceivers  !  from  the  first  to  the 
last  !  "  said  Auban,  laughing ;  and  his  laughter  was 
now  almost  without  bitterness. 

But  this  man  who  knew  that  there  has  never  any- 
where been  justice  on  this  earth,  and  who  despised 
the  belief  in  heavenly  justice  as  the  conscious  lie  of 
hired  priests,  or  feared  it  as  the  unconscious  and 
thoughtless  devotion  to  this  lie,  felt,  whenever  he 
placed  his  hand  in  the  festering  sore  of  prostitution, 
with  a  shudder,  that  here  was  a  way  along  which 
a  tardy  justice  was  slowly,  inexpressibly  slowly, 
creeping  from  the  suffering  to  the  living. 

What  to  the  wealthy  are  the  people  —  the  people 
who  "must  not  be  treated  too  well,"  lest  they  become 
overbearing?  Human  beings  with  the  same  claims  on 
life  and  the  same  wishes  as  they  themselves  ?  Absurd 
dreams !  A  labor  machine  which  must  be  attended 
to  that  it  may  do  its  work.  And  the  verse  of  an  Eng- 
lish song  ran  through  Auban's  mind: 

Our  sons  are  the  rich  man's  serfs  by  day, 
And  our  daughters  his  slaves  by  night. 


In  the  Heart  of  the  World-Metropolis.         17 

Their  sons —  good  enough  for  labor.  But  at  a 
distance  —  at  a  distance.  A  pressure  of  the  hand 
that  labors  for  them?  Labor  is  their  duty.  And 
these  hands  are  so  soiled  —  by  the  labor  of  a  never- 
ending  day. 

Their  daughters  —  good  enough  to  serve  as  conduits 
for  the  troubled  stream  of  their  lusts  which  would 
else  overflow  on  the  immaculate  and  pure  souls  of 
their  own  mothers  and  daughters.  Their  daughters 
by  night !  What  will  money  not  buy  of  hunger  and 
of  despair? 

But  here  —  here  alone  !  —  the  one  thus  sacrificed 
draws  her  murderers  into  the  whirlpool  of  their  ruin. 

Our  whole  sexual  life  —  here  wildly  riotous,  there 
pressed  into  the  unnatural  relationship  of  marriage 
—  is  being  overspread,  as  by  a  dark,  threatening 
cloud,  by  a  legion  of  terrible  diseases,  at  whose  men- 
tion everybody  grows  pale,  because  no  one  is  secure 
against  them.  And  as  it  has  corrupted  an  incalcul- 
able portion  of  the  youth  of  our  time,  so  it  is  already 
standing  as  the  fulfilment  of  an  unuttered  curse  over 
a  generation  still  lying  in  slumber. 

Auban  was  forced  to  look  up.  A  crowd  of  young 
men  of  the  jeunesse  doree  were  staggering  out  of  the 
London  Pavilion,  whose  gas  torches  scattered  their 
streams  of  light  over  Piccadilly  Circus.  Their  sole 
employment  was  only  too  plainly  written  on  their 
dull,  brutally  debauched  faces:  sport,  women,  and 
horses.  They  were  of  course  in  full  dress;  but  the 
tall  hats  were  crushed  in,  and  shirts,  crumpled  and 
soiled  by  whiskey  and  cigar  ashes,  furnished  a  con- 
spicuous contrast  to  their  black  frock  coats.  With 
coarse  laughter  and  cynical  remarks  some  of  them 
surrounded  a  few  of  the  demi-monde,  while  the  others 
called  for  hansoms,  which  speedily  came  driving  up ; 
the  noisily  protesting  women  were  forced  in,  and  the 
singing  of  the  drunken  men  died  away  in  the  clatter 
of  the  departing  cabs. 

Auban  surveyed  the  place.     There  before  him  — 


18  The  Anarchists. 

down  Piccadilly  —  lay  a  world  of  wealth  and  comfort : 
the  world  of  the  aristocratic  palaces  and  the  great 
clubs,  of  the  luxurious  stores  and  of  fashionable  art 
—  the  whole  surfeited  and  extravagant  life  of  the 
"great  world,".  .  .  the  sham  life  of  pretence. 

The  lightning  of  the  coming  revolution  must  strike 
first  here.  It  cannot  be  otherwise.  .  .  . 

As  Auban  crossed  the  street,  he  was  attracted  by 
the  ragged  form  of  an  aged  man,  who,  whenever  the 
traffic  of  the  wagons  permitted,  cleared  the  street  of 
the  traces  left  by  the  wagons  and  horses,  and,  when 
his  broom  had  done  the  work,  modestly  waited  for 
the  thoughtfulness  of  those  whose  feet  he  had  pro- 
tected against  contact  with  the  filth;  and  Auban 
became  curious  to  see  how  many  would  even  as  much 
as  notice  the  service.  For  about  five  minutes  he 
leaned  against  the  lantern  post  in  front  of  the  arched 
entrance  of  Spiers  and  Pond's  restaurant  at  the  Crite- 
rion, and  watched  the  untiring  labor  of  the  old  man. 
During  these  five  minutes  about  three  hundred  per- 
sons crossed  the  street  dry-shod.  The  old  man  no 
one  saw. 

"You  are  not  doing  a  good  business?"  he  asked, 
as  he  approached  him. 

The  old  man  put  his  hand  in  the  pocket  of  his 
ragged  coat  and  drew  forth  four  copper  pieces. 

"That  is  all  in  three  hours." 

"That  is  not  enough  for  your  night's  lodging," 
said  Auban,  and  gave  him  a  sixpence. 

And  the  old  man  looked  after  him,  as  he  slowly 
crossed  the  place  with  difficult  steps. 

Behind  Auban  disappeared  the  lights  of  the  place, 
the  light-colored,  similarly  built  houses  of  the  square 
of  Regent  Street;  and  while  the  distances  behind 
him  grew  narrower  and  the  roar  died  away,  he  walked 
on  confidently  farther  and  farther  into  the  dark, 
mysterious  network  of  the  streets  of  Soho.  .  .  . 


In  the  Heart  of  the  World-Metropolis.         19 

At  the  same  hour  —  it  was  not  far  from  nine  — 
there  was  coming  from  the  east,  from  the  direction  of 
Drury  Lane  towards  Wardour  Street,  with  the  un- 
steady haste  which  shows  that  one  is  in  a  strange 
and  unknown  quarter  and  yet  would  like  to  reach  a 
definite  place,  a  man  of  about  forty  years,  in  the  not 
striking  dress  of  a  laborer,  which  differs  from  that 
of  the  citizen  in  London  only  by  its  simplicity.  As 
he  stopped  —  convinced  that  he  would  hardly  gratify 
his  impatience  by  proceeding  in  the  direction  he  was 
going  —  and  asked  his  way  of  one  of  the  young  fel- 
lows congregated  in  front  of  one  of  the  innumerable 
public  houses,  it  was  to  be  seen  by  his  vain  efforts 
to  make  himself  understood  that  the  inquirer  was  a 
foreigner. 

He  seemed,  nevertheless,  to  have  understood  the 
explanations,  for  he  took  an  entirely  different  route 
from  the  one  which  he  had  been  following.  He 
turned  towards  the  north.  After  he  had  passed 
through  two  or  three  more  of  the  equally  dark,  filthy, 
and  in  all  respects  similar  streets,  he  suddenly  found 
himself  in  the  midst  of  the  tumult  of  one  of  those 
market-places  where  on  Saturday  evenings  the  popu- 
lation of  the  poorer  quarters  supply  their  needs  for 
the  following  days  with  the  wages  of  the  past  week. 
The  sides  of  the  street  were  occupied  by  two  endless 
rows  of  closely  crowding  carts  with  tables  and  stands, 
heavily  laden  with  each  of  the  thousand  needs  of 
daily  life,  and  between  them,  as  well  as  on  the  narrow 
sidewalks  beside  the  open  and  overstocked  shops,  a 
turbulent  and  haggling  mass  was  pushing  and  jos- 
tling along,  whose  cries  and  noise  were  only  surpassed 
by  the  shrill  confusion  of  the  voices  of  the  vendors 
praising  their  wares.  The  street  in  its  entire  length 
was  dipped  in  a  dazzling  brightness  by  the  nickering 
blaze  of  countless  petroleum  flames,  a  brightness  such 
as  the  light  of  day  never  brought  here;  the  damp 
air  filled  with  a  thick,  steaming  smoke ;  the  ground 
covered  with  sweepings  of  all  kinds  which  made  the 


20  The  Anarchists. 

walking  on  the  slipper}-,  irregular  stone  pavement 
still  more  difficult. 

The  laborer  who  had  made  mquir}^  concerning  his 
way  became  entangled  in  the  throng,  and  was  trying 
to  extricate  himself  as  quickly  as  he  could.  He 
hardly  gave  a  look  at  the  treasures  stored  round 
about,  —  at  the  stands  with  the  huge,  raw,  bloody 
pieces  of  meat ;  at  the  heavily  laden  carts  with  vege- 
tables of  all  sorts ;  at  the  tables  full  of  old  iron  and 
clothing;  at  the  long  rows  of  foot-wear  bound  to- 
gether which  hung  stretched  above  him  and  across 
the  street;  at  the  whole  impenetrable  hodge-podge 
of  retail  trade  that  here  surrounded  him  with  its 
noise  and  violence.  When,  accompanied  by  the  curses 
of  the  crowd,  a  cart  pushed  recklessly  through  the 
multitude,  he  availed  himself  of  the  opportunity  to 
follow  it,  and  thus  reached  sooner  than  he  had  hoped 
the  corner  of  the  next  cross-street,  where  things  again 
took  their  even  course  and  offered  the  possibility  of 
standing  still  for  a  moment. 

Then,  as  he  looked  round,  he  suddenly  saw  Auban 
on  the  other  side  of  the  street.  Surprised  to  see  his 
friend  so  unexpectedly  in  this  quarter,  he  did  not  at 
once  hasten  to  him;  and  then  —  as  he  had  already 
half  crossed  the  street  —  he  turned  back  into  the 
crowd,  impelled  by  the  thought:  What  is  he  doing 
here  ?  The  next  minute  he  gazed  at  him  attentively. 

Auban  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  a  row  of  half- 
drunken  men  who  were  laying  siege  to  the  entrance 
of  a  public  house,  in  the  hope  of  being  invited  by  one 
of  their  acquaintances:  "Have  a  drink!"  He  was 
standing  there,  bent  forward  a  little,  his  hands  rest- 
ing on  the  cane  held  between  his  knees,  and  staring 
fixedly  into  the  passing  throng,  as  if  waiting  to  see 
a  familiar  face  emerge  from  it.  His  features  were 
severe;  around  the  mouth  lay  a  sharp  line,  and  his 
deep-sunken  eyes  wore  a  fixed  and  gloomy  look. 
His  closely-shaved  cheeks  were  lean,  and  the  sharp 
nose  gave  the  features  of  his  narrow  and  fine  face  the 


In  the  Heart  of  the  World-Metropolis.          21 

expression  of  great  will-power.  A  dark,  loose  cloak 
fell  carelessly  down  the  exceptionally  tall  and  nar- 
row-shouldered form ;  and  as  the  other  on  the  opposite 
street  corner  saw  him  so  standing,  it  struck  him  for 
the  first  time  that  for  years  he  had  not  seen  him 
otherwise  than  in  this  same  loose  garment  of  the  same 
comfortable  cut  and  of  the  same  simplest  dark  color. 
Just  so  plain  and  yet  so  striking  had  been  his  exter- 
nal appearance  when  —  how  long  ago  was  it:  six  or 
seven  years  already?  —  he  made  his  acquaintance  in 
Paris,  and  just  as  then,  with  the  same  regular,  sharp, 
and  gloomy  features  which  had  at  most  grown  a  little 
more  pale  and  gray,  he  was  standing  there  to-day, 
careless  and  unconcerned,  in  thoughtful  contempla- 
tion in  the  midst  of  the  feverish  and  joyless  bustle 
of  the  Saturday  evening  of  Soho. 

Now  he  was  coming  towards  him,  fixedly  gazing 
straight  ahead.  But  he  did  not  see  him,  and  was 
about  to  pass  by  him. 

"Auban!  "  exclaimed  the  other. 

The  person  addressed  was  not  startled,  but  he 
turned  slowly  to  one  side  and  gazed  with  a  vacant 
and  absent  look  into  the  face  of  the  speaker,  until 
the  other  grasped  him  by  the  arm. 

"Auban!" 

"  Otto  ?  "  asked  he  then,  but  without  surprise.  And 
then  almost  in  a  whisper,  and  in  the  husky  tones, 
still  half  embarrassed  through  fear,  of  one  awaking 
and  telling  of  his  bad  dream,  softly,  lest  he  call  it  to 
life :  "  I  was  thinking  of  something  else ;  of  —  of  the 
misery,  how  great  it  is,  how  enormous,  and  how 
slowly  the  light  comes,  how  slowly." 

The  other  looked  at  him  surprised.  But  already 
Auban,  suddenly  awake,  burst  out  in  laughter,  and 
in  his  usual  confident  voice  asked : 

"But  how  in  the  world  do  you  come  from  your 
East  End  to  Soho?" 

"I  have  gone  astray.  Where  is  Oxford  Street? 
There,  is  it  not?" 


22  The  Anarchists. 

But  Auban  took  him  smilingly  by  the  shoulder 
and  turned  him  round. 

"No,  there.  Listen:  before  us  lies  the  north  of 
the  city,  the  entire  length  of  Oxford  Street;  behind 
us,  the  Strand,  which  you  know ;  there,  whence  you 
came  —  you  came  from  the  east  ?  —  is  Drury  Lane  and 
the  former  Seven  Dials,  of  which  you  have  surely 
already  heard.  Seven  Dials,  the  former  hell  of 
poverty;  now  'civilized.'  Have  you  not  yet  seen  the 
famous  Birddealers'  Street?  Look,"  he  continued, 
without  awaiting  an  answer,  and  made  a  gesture 
with  his  hand  toward  the  east,  "  in  those  streets  as 
far  as  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  a  large  portion  of  the 
misery  of  the  West  End  is  quartered.  What  do  you 
think  they  would  not  give  if  they  could  sweep  it  off 
and  push  it  to  the  east?  Of  what  use  is  it  that  they 
build  broad  thoroughfares,  just  as  Haussmann,  the 
prefect  of  the  Seine,  did  in  Paris,  in  order  thus  more 
readily  to  meet  the  revolutions,  — "of  what  use  is  it? 
It  crowds  only  more  closely  on  itself.  There  is  not 
a  Saturday  evening  that  I  do  not  go  through  this 
quarter  between  Regent  Street  and  Lincoln's  Inn, 
between  the  Strand  and  Oxford  Street ;  it  is  an  empire 
in  itself,  and  I  find  just  as  much  to  see  here  as  in 
the  East  End.  It  is  the  first  time  you  are  here  ?  " 

"Yes,  if  I  am  not  mistaken.  Did  not  the  Club 
meet  here  formerly  ?  " 

"Yes.  But  nearer  to  Oxford  Street.  However, 
a  lot  of  Germans  are  living  here  —  in  the  better 
streets  near  Regent  Street." 

"Where  is  misery  worst?" 

"Worst?"  Auban  reflected  a  moment.  "If  you 
turn  in  from  Drury  Lane  —  the  Courts  of  Wild 
Street;  then  the  terrible  jumble  of  almost  tumble- 
down houses  near  the  Old  Curiosity  Shop  which 
Dickens  has  described,  with  the  dirt-covered  alleys; 
in  general,  along  the  side  streets  of  Drury  Lane, 
especially  in  the  north  along  the  Queen  Streets ;  and 
further  this  way,  above  all,  the  former  Dials,  the 
hell  of  hells." 


In  the  Heart  of  the  World-Metropolis.          23 

"  Do  you  know  all  the  streets  here  ?  " 

"All." 

"  But  you  cannot  see  much  on  them.  The  trag- 
edies of  poverty  are  enacted  behind  the  walls." 

"But  still  the  last  act  —  how  often!  —  on  the 
street." 

They  had  slowly  walked  on.  Auban  had  placed 
his  arm  in  that  of  the  other,  and  was  leaning  wearily 
against  him.  Notwithstanding  this,  he  limped  more 
than  before. 

"And  where  are  you  going,  Otto?"  he  asked. 

"  To  the  Club.     Will  you  not  come  along? " 

"  I  am  a  little  tired.  I  spent  the  whole  afternoon 
over  yonder."  Then,  as  it  occurred  to  him  that  the 
other  might  see  in  these  words  only  a  pretence  for 
declining,  he  added  more  quickly:  "But  I'll  go  with 
you ;  it  is  a  good  chance ;  else  I  should  not  get  there 
so  very  soon  again.  How  long  it  is  since  we  saw 
each  other! " 

"Yes;  it  is  almost  three  weeks  !  " 

"  I  am  beginning  more  and  more  to  live  for  myself. 
You  know  it.  What  can  I  do  in  the  clubs  ?  These 
long  speeches,  always  on  the  same  subject :  what  are 
they  for?  All  that  is  only  tiresome." 

He  saw  very  well  how  disagreeable  his  words  were 
to  the  other,  and  how  he  nevertheless  tried  to  come 
to  terms  with  the  justice  of  his  remark. 

"  I  am  still  at  home  every  Sunday  afternoon  after 
five  o'clock,  as  I  used  to  be.  Why  don't  you  come 
any  more?" 

"  Because  all  sorts  of  people  meet  at  your  place ; 
bourgeois,  and  Social  Democrats,  and  literary  people, 
and  Individualists." 

Auban  burst  out  laughing.  "  Tant  mieux.  The 
discussions  can  only  gain  thereby.  But  the  Individ- 
ualists are  the  worst  of  all,  aren't  they,  Otto?" 

His  face  was  completely  changed.  Just  before 
gloomy  and  reserved,  it  now  showed  a  kindly  expres- 
sion of  friendship  and  friendliness. 


24  TJie  Anarchists. 

But  the  other,  who  had  been  addressed  as  Otto, 
and  whose  name  was  Trupp,  seemed  to  be  affected 
only  disagreeably  by  it,  and  he  mentioned  a  name 
which,  although  it  did  not  remove'  the  calm  from 
Auban's  brow,  made  the  smile  die  away  from  his 
lips. 

"  Fifteen  years !  And  for  nothing !  "  said  the  work- 
ingman,  wrathful  and  indignant. 

"  But  why  did  he  go  so  carelessly  into  the  trap  of 
his  enemies?  He  must  have  known  them." 

"  He  was  betrayed !  " 

"Why  did  he  confide  in  others?"  asked  Auban 
again.  "  Every  one  is  lost  from  the  start  who  builds 
on  others.  He  knew  this  too.  It  was  a  useless 
sacrifice ! " 

"  I  fear  you  have  no  idea  of  the  greatness  of  this 
sacrifice  and  his  devotion,"  said  Trupp,  angrily. 

"Dear  Otto,  you  know  very  well  that  I  am  alto- 
gether lacking  in  the  feeling  of  appreciation  of  all 
so-called  sacrifices.  Of  what  use  has  been  the  defeat 
of  the  comrade,  the  best,  the  most  honest,  perhaps, 
of  all?  Tell  me!" 

"It  has  made  the  struggle  more  bitter.  It  has 
shaken  some  out  of  their  lethargy;  others  —  us — it 
has  filled  with  new  hate.  It  has  "  —  and  his  eyes 
flashed,  while  Auban  felt  how  the  arm  which  he  was 
holding  was  trembling  in  convulsive  wrath —  "it  lias 
renewed  within  us  the  oath  to  claim  on  the  day  of 
reckoning  a  hundredfold  expiation  for  every  victim  !  " 

"And  then?" 

"  Then  when  this  accursed  order  has  been  razed  to 
the  ground,  then  upon  its  ruins  will  rise  the  free 
society." 

Auban  looked  again  at  the  violent  talker,  with  the 
sad,  serious  look  with  which  he  had  before  greeted 
him.  He  knew  that  in  the  distracted  breast  of  this 
man  but  one  wish  and  one  hope  were  still  living,— 
the  hope  of  "the  outbreak  of  the  "great,"  of  the  "last," 
revolution. 


In  the  Heart  of  the  World-Metropolis.          25 

Thus,  years  ago,  had  they  walked  over  the  boule- 
vards of  Paris  and  intoxicated  themselves  by  the 
sounding  words  of  hope ;  and  while  Auban  had  long 
ago  lost  all  faith,  except  the  faith  in  the  slowly, 
slowly  acting  power  of  reason,  which  will  finally 
lead  every  man,  instead  of  providing  for  others,  to 
provide  for  himself,  and  had  thus  more  and  more 
come  back  to  himself,  so  the  other  had  more  and 
more  lost  himself  in  the  fanaticism  of  a  despair,  and 
conjured  daily  anew  the  shimmering  ghost  of  the 
"golden  future  "  before  his  eyes,  and  let  slip  from 
his  hands,  which  longingly  and  confidingly  entwined 
the  neck  of  love,  the  last  hold  upon  the  reality  of 
things. 

"In  fifteen  years,"  thus  again  broke  forth,  blazing, 
the  flame  of  hope  from  his  words,  "much  can  hap- 
pen ! " 

Auban  made  no  further  answer.  He  was  powerless 
against  this  faith.  Slowly  they  walked  on.  The 
streets  grew  more  and  more  deserted  and  quiet.  The 
atmosphere,  growing  denser  and  denser,  was  still 
charged  with  the  teeming  dampness  of  three  hours 
ago.  The  sky  was  one  misty,  gray  mass  of  clouds. 
The  lanterns  gleamed  with  an  unsteady  flicker. 
Between  the  two  men  lay  the  silence  of  estrange- 
ment. 

They  were  also  externally  very  different. 

Auban  was  taller  and  thinner;  Trupp,  more  mus- 
cular and  well  proportioned.  The  latter  wore  a 
short,  brown,  full  beard,  while  the  former  was  always 
carefully  shaved. 

When  they  were  alone  they  always,  as  on  this 
evening,  talked  in  French,  which  Trupp  spoke  with- 
out trouble,  if  not  quite  correctly,  while  Auban 
spoke  it  so  rapidly  that  even  Frenchmen  often  found 
difficulty  in  following  him.  His  voice  had  a  strange, 
hard  sound,  which  occasionally  yielded  to  the  warmth 
of  his  vivacity,  but  still  oftener  to  a  fine  irony. 

Before  them  the  tangle  of  small  and  narrow  streets 


26  The  Anarchists. 

was  beginning  to  disappear.  They  ascended  a  few 
steps.  There  lay  Oxford  Street! 

"In  fifteen  years,"  Auban  broke  the  silence,  "the 
chains  of  servitude  will  have  nearly  cut  through  the 
wrists  of  the  nations  in  the  countries  of  the  Conti- 
nent, so  that  they  will  no  longer  be  able  to  strike  a 
blow.  Here  the  same  hands  will  be  manacled  on  the 
day  on  which  the  right  of  speech  is  denied  the  mouth 
which  mow  protests  and  talks  itself  hoarse." 

"  I  know  the  Avorkingmen  better  than  you.  They 
will  have  risen  long  before  then." 

"  Only  to  be  mown  down  by  cannons,  which  auto- 
matically fire  one  shot  every  second,  and  sixty  in  a 
minute.  Yes.  I  know  the  bourgeoisie  better,  and  its 
helpers." 

They  were  standing  in  Oxford  Street :  in  the  light 
and  life  of  night. 

"  Look  there  —  do  you  believe  this  life,  so  entan- 
gled, so  perplexed,  so  enormously  complicated,  will 
fall  at  one  blow,  and  at  the  bidding  of  a  few  individ- 
uals?" 

"Yes,"  said  Trupp,  and  pointed  to  the  east. 
"There  lies  the  future." 

But  Auban  asked:  "What  is  the  future?  The 
future  is  Socialism.  The  suppression  of  the  individ- 
ual into  ever-narrower  limits.  The  total  lack  of 
independence.  The  large  family.  All  children,  chil- 
dren. .  .  .  But  this,  too,  must  be  passed  through." 

He  laughed  bitterly,  and  as  he  followed  the  gaze 
of  his  friend:  "There  lies  —  Russia!"  Then  both 
were  again  silent. 

Oxford  Street  stretched  away  —  an  immeasurable 
line  of  blending  light  and  rushing  darkness  up  and 
down. 

"There  are  three  Londons,"  said  Auban,  impressed 
by  the  life,  "three:  London  on  Saturday  evening, 
when  it  gets  drunk  in  order  to  forget  the  coming 
week;  London  on  Sunday,  when  it  sleeps  in  the  lap 
of  the  infallible  church  to  sober  up;  and  London, 


In  the  Heart  of  the  World-Metropolis.          27 

when  it  works  and  lets  work  —  on  the  long,  long  days 
of  the  week." 

"I  hate  this  city,"  said  the  other. 

"  I  love  it  !  "  said  Auban,  passionately. 

"  How  different  was  Paris  !  " 

And  the  common  memories  rose  before  them. 

But  Auban  hurried  on. 

"We  shall  never  reach  the  Club." 

They  crossed  Oxford  Street  straight  ahead,  and 
walked  up  the  next  cross-street  towards  the  north. 
Auban  again  rested  heavily  on  the  arm  of  his  friend. 
"  But  tell  me :  how  are  matters  ?  " 

"  Very  well,  notwithstanding  we  are  still  without 
a  'council.'  Do  you  still  remember  what  a  fuss  was 
made  at  the  time  we  organized  the  Club  wholly 
according  to  the  communistic  principle:  without 
council,  without  officers,  without  statutes,  without 
programme,  and  without  fixed  compulsory  dues? 
Complete  failure  through  disorder  was  prophesied, 
and  all  other  possible  things  besides.  But  we  are 
still  getting  on  very  nicely,  and  in  our  meetings 
things  proceed  just  as  in  others  where  the  bell  of  the 
president  rules  —  it  is  always  one  talking  after  the 
other,  if  he  has  anything  to  say." 

Auban  smiled. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "that  the  fanatics  of  order  cannot 
understand,  how  sensible  people  can  come  together 
and  remain  together  in  order  to  deliberate  on  their 
common  interests,  unless  the  individual  has  been 
guaranteed  his  membership  with  rights  and  duties  on 
a  bit  of  paper.  But  the  fact  that  this  attempt  has 
not  failed  is  surely  not  a  proof  to  you  of  the  possi- 
bility of  constituting  human  society  at  large  on  like 
foundations?  That  would  be  pure  insanity." 

"So?  that  would  be  pure  insanity?  We  don't 
think  so.  We  cherish  this  hope,"  protested  Trupp, 
tenaciously. 

Auban  broke  in:  "How  is  your  paper  going?" 

"  Slowly.     Do  you  read  it  ?  " 


28  TJie  Anarchists. 

"Yes.  But  rarely.  I  have  forgotten  the  little 
German  that  I  learned  in  school." 

"  We  edit  it  together,  too.  Without  a  committee, 
without  an  editor.  On  one  evening  in  the  week 
those  who  have  time  and  who  feel  inclined  come 
together,  and  the  communications  sent  in  are  read, 
discussed,  and  put  together." 

"  But  that  is  why  the  matter  differs  so  extraordi- 
narily in  point  of  excellence  and  is  so  heterogeneous. 
No,  back  of  a  paper  must  be  a  personality,  a  com- 
plete, interesting  personality." 

Trupp  interrupted  him  violently. 

"Yes,  and  then  we  should  again  have  'leadership.' 
A  manager  always  turns  into  a  governor"  —  he  did 
not  notice  the  assenting  nod  of  Auban  —  "  here  in 
the  small  way,  there  in  the  large  !  Our  whole  move- 
ment has  terribly  suffered  therefrom,  from  this  cen- 
tralism. Where  in  the  beginning  there  was  pure 
enthusiasm,  it  has  changed  into  self-complacency; 
genuine  pity  and  love  into  the  desire  of  each  to  act 
the  part  of  the  saviour.  Thus  we  already  have  every- 
where high  and  low,  the  flock  and  the  bellweather,  on 
the  one  side  conceit,  on  the  other  thoughtless  and 
fanatical  echoing  of  the  party  principles." 

"But  you  have  indeed  totally  misunderstood  me. 
As  if  I  had  ever  believed  anything  else !  On  general 
principles  I  distrust  every  one  who  would  presume  to 
represent  others,  to  provide  for  others,  and  to  take 
upon  his  own  shoulders  the  responsibility  for  the 
affairs  of  others.  Mind  your  own  business  and  let 
me  take  care  of  mine  —  that  is  a  good  saying.  And 
really  Anarchism." 

"I,  too,  am  an  Anarchist." 

"No,  my  friend,  you  are  not.  You  champion  in 
every  respect  the  opposite  of  truly  Anarchistic  ideas. 
You  are  a  thorough-going  Communist  —  not  only  in 
your  opinions,  but  in  your  whole  way  of  feeling  and 
wishing.*1 

"  Who  would  dispute  my  right  to  call  my  opinions 
Anarchistic  ?  " 


In  the  Heart  of  the  World-Metropolis.          29 

"Nobody.  But  you  do  not  consider  what  lament- 
able confusion  arises  from  the  mixing  of  totally 
different  conceptions.  But  why  quarrel  now  over 
the  old  question?  Come  on  Sunday.  We  might 
again  discuss.  Why  not?" 

"  Very  well.  But  you  are,  and  you  will  remain, 
the  Individualist  that  you  have  become  since  you 
have  studied  the  social  question  'scientifically  ' !  I 
wish  you  were  still  the  same  that  you  were  when  I 
met  you  in  Paris,  my  friend!  " 

"No,  not  I,  Otto!  "  said  Auban,  and  laughed  out 
loud. 

Trupp  was  annoyed. 

"  You  do  not  know  what  you  are  defending !  Is 
not  Individualism  synonymous  with  giving  free  rein 
to  all  the  low  passions  of  man,  above  all,  egoism, 
and  has  it  not  produced  all  this  misery  —  liberty  on 
the  one  —  " 

Auban  stopped  and  looked  at  the  speaker. 

"  Liberty  of  the  individual  ?  To-day  when  we  are 
living  under  a  Communism  more  complicated  and 
brutal  than  ever  before  ?  To-day  when  the  individ- 
ual, from  the  cradle  to  the  grave,  is  placed  under 
contribution  to  the  State,  to  the  community?  Go  to 
the  ends  of  the  world,  and  tell  me  where  I  can  escape 
these  obligations  and  be  myself.  I  will  go  to  this 
liberty  that  I  have  sought  in  vain  all  my  life." 

"  But  your  views  only  furnish  new  weapons  to  the 
bourgeoisie." 

"  If  you  will  not  use  these  weapons  yourselves,  the 
only  ones  in  which  I  still  believe.  Only  then.  And 
surely,  they  —  these  slowly  ripening  thoughts  of  ego- 
ism (I  use  this  word  deliberately)  —  they  are  in  the 
same  way  dangerous  to  the  present  conditions  as 
they  will  be  dangerous  to  the  conditions  prevailing 
when  we  shall  have  entered  the  haven  of  the  popular 
state  that  will  make  all  things  happy,  the  haven  of 
condensed  Communism  —  more  dangerous  than  all 
your  bombs  and  all  the  bayonets  and  mitrailleuses  of 
the  present  rulers." 


30  The  Anarchists. 

"You  have  greatly  changed,"  said  Trupp,  seri- 
ously. 

"No,  Otto.     I  have  only  found  myself." 

"We  must  come  back  to  this.  It  must  be  de- 
cided—" 

"Whether  I  still  belong  to  you  or  not?  But  this 
is  surely  only  talk.  For  the  free  man  —  and  you 
want  the  whole,  undivided  autonomy  of  the  individ- 
ual—  can  only  belong  to  himself." 

They  had  now  entered  Charlotte  Street,  which  lay 
before  them  in  its  length  and  gloomy  darkness. 

They  turned  into  one  of  the  side  streets,  into  one 
of  the  almost  deserted  and  half-lighted  passages  which 
stretch  along  towards  the  noise  of  Tottenham  Court 
Road. 

"Now  we  must  talk  German,"  said  Auban  in  that 
language,  which  sounded  odd  and  unfamiliar  on  his 
lips. 

They  stopped  in  front  of  a  narrow,  light-colored 
house. 

Above  the  door,  upon  the  pane  illuminated  by  the 
flickering  light  behind  it,  stood  the  name  of  the 
Club. 

Trupp  quickly  opened  the  door,  and  they  entered. 


CHAPTER   II. 

THE   ELEVENTH    HOUR. 

ON  Friday  evening  of  the  following  week  Canard 
Auban  was  riding  down  the  endlessly  long  City 
Road  in  an  omnibus.  He  sat  beside  the  driver, —  a 
gentleman  in  a  silk  hat  and  with  a  faultless  exterior, 
—  and  watched  impatiently  the  gradual  lessening  of 
the  distance  which  separated  him  from  his  destina- 
tion. He  was  excited  and  out  of  sorts.  As  the 
omnibus  stopped  at  Finsbury  Square,  he  quickly 
alighted,  hurried  down  the  pavement  as  far  as  the 
next  cross-street  after  he  had  satisfied  himself  about 
the  direction,  and  found  himself  a  few  minutes  later 
on  the  steps  of  South  Place  Institute. 

Even  from  a  distance  an  unusually  large  concourse 
of  people  was  noticeable.  At  short  intervals  police- 
men were  standing  round.  The  doors  of  the  dark, 
church-like  building  were  wide  open;  as  Auban 
slowly  pushed  his  way  in  with  the  stream,  he  ex- 
changed hasty  words  of  greeting  with  some  acquaint- 
ances who  were  stationed  there  to  sell  the  papers  of 
their  society  or  their  party.  The  responses  frequently 
told  of  surprise  or 'pleasure  at  seeing  him. 

He  took  what  came  in  his  way  of  the  papers  offered 
for  sale:  "Commonweal,"  the  interesting  organ  of 
the  Socialist  League ;  "Justice,"  the  party  organ  of 
the  Social  Democratic  Federation ;  and  a  few  copies 
of  the  new  German  paper,  "Londoner  Freie  Presse," 
the  enterprise  of  a  number  of  German  Socialists  of 
the  various  schools,  which  was  to  form  a  common 
ground  for  their  views,  and  to  serve  the  propaganda 

31 


32  The  Anarchists. 

among  the  German-speaking  portion  of  the  London 
population.  Auban  never  returned  from  these  meet- 
ings without  having  filled  his  breast-pocket  with 
papers  and  pamphlets. 

At  the  inner  entrance  the  resolution  of  the  even- 
ing was  being  distributed;  large,  clearly  printed 
quarto  sheets. 

The  hall  was  of  about  equal  width  and  depth ;  a 
broad  gallery,  which  was  already  nearly  filled,  ex- 
tended along  the  walls.  At  an  elevation  of  several 
feet,  a  platform  rose  in  front,  on  which  were  placed 
a  number  of  chairs  for  the  speakers.  It  was  still 
unoccupied.  The  hall  gave  the  impression  of  being 
used  for  religious  purposes.  The  shape  of  the  seats 
also  indicated  this. 

This  evening,  however,  nothing  was  to  be  noticed 
of  the  indifferent,  mechanically  quiet  routine  of  a 
religious  meeting.  The  seats  were  occupied  by  an 
excited,  strongly  moved  multitude  loudly  exchang- 
ing their  opinions.  Auban  rapidly  surveyed  it.  He 
saw  many  familiar  faces.  At  the  corner  of  the  hall, 
near  the  platform,  a  number  of  the  speakers  of  the 
evening  had  gathered.  Auban  cut  through  the  rows 
of  benches  that  were  incessantly  being  filled,  and 
approached  the  group.  With  some  he  exchanged  a 
quiet  pressure  of  the  hand ;  to  others  he  nodded. 

"  Well,  you  will  of  course  speak,  too,  Mr.  Auban  ?  " 
he  was  asked.  « 

He  shook  his  head,  deprecatingly. 

"I  do  not  like  to  speak  English,  do  not  like  to 
speak  at  all.  That's  past.  And  what  should  I  say? 
What  one  would  like  to  say  he  is  not  allowed  to  say. 
It  is  a  mixed  meeting  ? "  he  then  asked  more  softly 
of  a  man  standing  near  him,  the  well-known  agitator 
of  a  German  revolutionary  club. 

"Yes,  radicals,  free-thinkers,  liberals  —  all  sorts  of 
people.  You  will  see,  most  of  the  speakers  will 
disavow  all  sympathy  with  Anarchism." 

"Have  you  not  seen  Trupp?" 


The  Eleventh  Hour.  33 

"No;  he  surely  will  not  come.  I  have  never  yet 
met  him  at  one  of  these  meetings." 

Auban  looked  round.  The  hall  was  already  crowded 
to  suffocation ;  the  aisles  between  the  seats  were  filled ; 
a  number  of  workingmen  surrounded  the  large  group- 
photograph  of  the  Chicago  condemned,  which,  in  a 
broad  gilt  frame,  was  suspended  beneath  the  speaker's 
table.  On  the  table  adjoining,  several  newspaper  re- 
porters were  putting  their  writing-pads  in  order. 

At  the  entrances  the  crowd  became  more  and  more 
excited.  The  doors  were  wide  open.  From  the 
pushing  and  jostling  it  could  be  seen  that  large 
masses  were  still  demanding  admission.  Some  suc- 
ceeded in  forcing  their  way  to  the  front,  where  there 
still  was  room  on  the  seats  if  people  crowded  closer 
together.  When  Auban  saw  this,  he  also  quickly 
secured  a  seat  for  himself,  for  his  lame  leg  did  not 
permit  him  to  remain  standing  for  hours. 

He  planted  his  cane  firmly  and  crossed  his  legs. 
So  he  remained  sitting  the  entire  evening.  He  could 
overlook  the  whole  hall,  as  he  sat  on  one  of  the  side 
seats :  the  platform  lay  right  before  him. 

He  took  the  resolution  from  his  pocket  and  read  it 
through  carefully  and  slowly,  as  well  as  the  list  of 
speakers:  "several  of  the  most  prominent  Radicals 
and  Socialists."  He  knew  all  the  names  and  the  men 
to  whom  they  belonged,  although  he  had  scarcely 
met  any  of  them  during  the  past  year. 

"The  right  of  free  speech,"  was  on  the  programme. 
"  Seven  men  sentenced  to  death  for  holding  a  public 
meeting."  The  resolution  read:  " — that  the  Eng- 
lish workingmen  in  this  meeting  earnestly  wish  to 
call  the  attention  of  their  fellow-workingmen  in 
America  to  the  great  danger  to  public  liberty  which 
will  arise  if  they  permit  the  punishment  of  citizens 
for  attempting  to  resist  the  suppression  of  the  right 
of  public  assembly  and  free  speech,  since  a  right  for 
the  exercise  of  which  people  may  be  punished,  thereby 
clearly  becomes  no  right,  but  a  wrong. 


34  The  Anarchists. 

"That  the  fate  of  the  seven  men  who  are  under 
sentence  of  death  for  holding  a  public  meeting  in 
Chicago,  at  which  several  policemen  were  killed  in 
an  attempt  to  forcibly  disperse  the  people  and  sup- 
press the  speakers,  is  of  the  greatest  importance  to 
us  as  English  workingmen,  since  their  case  is  to-day 
the  case  of  our  comrades  in  Ireland,  and  perhaps 
to-morrow  our  own,  if  the  workingmen  on  both  sides 
of  the  Atlantic  shall  not  unanimously  declare  that 
all  who  interfere  with  the  right  of  public  assembly 
and  free  speech  do  so  illegally  and  at  their  own  peril. 
We  cannot  admit  that  the  political  opinions  of  the 
seven  condemned  men  have  anything  whatever  to 
do  with  the  principles  cited,  and  we  protest  against 
their  sentence,  which,  if  it  is  executed,  will  make  a 
capital  crime  of  meetings  held  by  workingmen  in  the 
United  States  of  America,  since  it  is  always  in  the 
power  of  the  authorities  to  incite  a  public  gathering 
to  resistance  by  threatening  their  lives.  We  expect 
of  our  American  comrades,  however  greatly  their 
political  opinions  may  differ,  that  they  will  demand 
the  unconditional  release  of  the  seven  men  in  whose 
persons  the  liberties  of  all  workingmen  are  now 
threatened.  .  .  ." 

When  Auban  had  finished,  he  saw  beside  him 
an  old  man  with  a  long,  white  beard  and  friendly 
expression. 

"Mr.  Marell,"  he  exclaimed,  visibly  pleased,  "are 
you  back  again  ?  What  a  surprise  !  " 

They  shook  hands  heartily. 

"I  did  not  mean  to  disturb  you  —  you  were  read- 
ing." 

They  spoke  English  together. 

"How  long  since  you  returned?" 

"Since  yesterday. 

"  And  were  you  in  Chicago  ?  " 

"Yes,  fourteen  days;  then  in  New  York." 

"  I  had  not  expected  you  — 

"I  could  not  bear  it  any  longer,  so  I  came  back." 


The  Eleventh  Hour.  35 

"You  saw  the  condemned?" 

"Certainly;  often." 

Auban  bent  over  to  him  and  asked  in  a  low  voice :  — 

"  There  is  no  hope  ?  " 

The  old  man  shook  his  head. 

"  None.  The  last  lies  with  the  governor  of  Illinois,* 
but  I  don't  believe  in  him." 

They  continued  in  an  undertone. 

"How  is  public  sentiment?" 

"  Public  sentiment  is  depressed.  The  Knights  of 
Labor  and  the  Georgeites  are  holding  back.  Alto- 
gether, many  things  are  different  from  what  one 
imagines  here.  Here  and  there  the  excitement  is 
great,  but  the  time  is  not  yet  ripe." 

"  Everything  will  be  done  ?  " 

"I  don't  know.  In  any  case,  everything  will  be 
useless." 

Both  were  silent.  Auban  looked  more  serious 
than  usual.  But  even  now  it  was  not  to  be  discerned 
what  kind  of  feeling  it  was  which  ruled  him. 

"How  are  the  prisoners?" 

"Very  calm.  Some  don't  want  a  pardon,  and  will 
say  so.  But  I  fear  the  others  are  still  hoping." 

It  was  past  eight  o'clock.  The  meeting  began  to 
grow  impatient;  the  voices  became  louder. 

Auban  continued  to  inquire,  and  the  old  man 
replied  in  his  calm,  sad  voice. 

"You  will  speak,  Mr.  Marell?" 

"  No,  my  friend.  There  is  another,  a  younger  one 
here ;  he  also  comes  from  Chicago,  and  he  will  have 
something  to  say  about  them  there." 

"  Will  you  be  at  home  to-morrow  ?  " 

"Yes;  come.  I  will  give  you  the  proceedings, 
and  the  latest  papers.  I  have  brought  much  with 
me.  Everything  I  could  get.  Much.  If  you  were 
to  read  everything,  you  would  get  a  good  picture  of 
our  American  conditions." 

"A  new  trial  will  not  be  granted?" 

"I  hope  not.     For  it  wouldn't  be  of  any  use;  the 


36  The  Anarchists. 

torture,  which  already  is  unendurable,  would  be 
uselessly  prolonged ;  new,  immense  sums  would  have 
to  be  raised  by  the  people  —  again  fifty  thousand 
dollars,  composed  of  labor  pennies  —  and  to  what 
end?  —  no;  the  hyena  wants  blood." 

"  And  the  people  ?  " 

"The  people  doesn't  know  itself  what  it  wants. 
It  does  not  yet  believe  in  the  gravity  of  the  situation, 
and  when  the  Eleventh  has  come,  it  will  be  too  late." 

A  young  Englishman,  who  knew  Mr.  Marell  from 
the  Socialist  League,  joined  in  their  conversation. 
Auban  looked  up.  The  former  said  seriously :  — 

"  No ;  I  still  will  not  believe  it.  At  the  close  of 
the  nineteenth  century,  in  full  view  of  the  nations, 
they  will  not  murder  seven  men  whose  innocence  is 
as  clear  as  day ;  thousands  upon  thousands  are  slain, 
but  people  no  longer  have  the  courage  to  simply  boast 
of  power  and  mock  all  laws  in  a  country  with  the 
institutions  of  the  States.  No;  they  will  not  do  it, 
for  the  reason  that  it  would  be  madness  from  their 
standpoint  thus  to  enlighten  and  arouse  the  people. 
No ;  they  will  not  dare !  Just  look ;  all  this  number 
of  people  here,  and  so  every  day  in  all  liberal  coun- 
tries, here  and  on  the  other  side,  these  meetings, 
these  papers,  this  flood  of  pamphlets !  Where  is  the 
man  with  a  mind  and  a  heart  who  does  not  revolt?  — 
are  the  hosts  to  be  counted  that  are  rising  on  the  other 
side  ?  And  their  will  would  not  be  powerful  enough 
to  fill  those  hired  scoundrels  with  terror  and  make 
them  desist  from  carrying  out  their  wicked  designs  ? 
No ;  they  will  not  dare,  comrade !  It  would  be  their 
own  ruin! " 

The  two  whom  he  addressed  shrugged  their  shoul- 
ders. What  could  they  answer  him? 

In  the  struggle  of  the  two  classes,  both  of  them 
had  seen  those  who  hold  the  power  in  their  hands 
commit  so  many  outrages  that  they  had  to  ask  them- 
selves what  could  happen  that  might  still  surprise 
them  and  excite  their  indignation. 


The  Eleventh  Hour.  37 

Auban  saw  how  the  hands  of  the  old  man,  holding 
a  gray,  shabby  hat,  trembled,  and  how  he  was  trying 
to  conceal  this  slight  trembling,  which  told  of  his 
emotion,  by  carelessly  playing  with  his  hat. 

"They  believe  they  will  strike  Anarchism  in  the 
heart  if  they  hang  a  number  of  its  champions,"  he 
said.  Auban  noticed  that  he  did  not  care  to  go  on 
with  the  conversation  at  this  time,  and  remained 
silent. 

But  he  again  pondered:  "What  is  Anarchism?" 
The  condemned-  of  Chicago?  Their  views  were 
partly  social-democratic,  partly  Communistic,  no  two 
of  them  would  have  given  the  same  answer  to  any 
question  put  to  them  involving  first  principles,  and 
yet  all  called  themselves  and  were  called  "Anar- 
chists"; but  when  had  Individualism  ever  spoken 
more  defiantly  than  out  of  the  mouth  of  that  young 
Communist  who  had  thundered  at  his  "judges  ":  "I 
despise  you,  I  despise  your  laws,  your  'order,'  your 
government,"  and:  "I  stand  by  it:  if  we  are  threat- 
ened by  cannon,  we  will  answer  with  dynamite 
bombs." 

And  further,  the  old  man  who  was  sitting  beside 
him!  He,  too,  called  himself  "Anarchist."  .  .  . 
And  what  was  it  that  he  was  ever  anew  preaching 
in  his  countless  pamphlets?  Love.  "What  is  Anar- 
chy ?  "  he  asks.  And  he  answers :  "  It  is  a  system  of 
society  in  which  no  one  disturbs  the  action  of  his 
neighbor ;  where  liberty  is  free  from  law ;  where  there 
is  no  privilege;  where  force  does  not  determine 
human  actions.  The  ideal  is  one  with  that  pro- 
claimed two  thousand  years  ago  by  the  Nazarene :  the 
brotherhood  of  all  mankind."  And  pained,  he  again 
and  again  exclaims :  "  Revenge  is  the  lesson  preached 
by  the  pulpit,  by  the  press,  by  all  classes  of  society ! 
No,  preach  love!  love!  love!".  .  . 

It  occurred  to  Auban,  in  recalling  these  words, 
how  dangerous  it  was  to  speak  in  such  general,  such 
hazy,  such  superficial  terms  to  those  who  were  as  yet 


38  The  Anarchists. 

so  little  prepared  to  discover  the  meaning  and  the 
import  of  the  words.  Thus  did  the  incongruous  and 
foreign  elements  more  and  more  form  themselves  into 
a  coil  whose  unravelling  frightened  away  many  who 
would  else  gladly  have  followed  the  individual 
threads.  .  .  . 

Auban  had  only  recently  made  the  acquaintance  of 
the  old  man.  It  had  been  at  a  debate  in  which  the 
differences  between  individualistic  and  communistic 
Anarchism  were  discussed.  Mr.  Marell  had  been 
the  only  one  who  —  as  he  himself  believed  —  cham- 
pioned the  former.  His  reasoning  had  interested 
Auban.  Notwithstanding  its  inconsistencies,  he 
found  much  in  it  that  was  in  close  relation  to  his 
own  conclusions.  So  they  had  become  acquainted 
with  each  other  and  met  a  few  times  before  the 
former  returned  to  America,  to  do  there,  as  he  said, 
what  was  yet  in  his  power  to  do.  As  he  never  talked 
about  himself,  Auban  did  not  know  of  what  nature 
these  efforts  were  to  be,  and  from  what  he  had  heard 
this  evening  he  could  see  further  that  they  had  been 
unsuccessful.  But  so  much  was  clear:  that  this  man 
seemed  to  be  at  the  head  of  a  very  extended  ramifica- 
tion of  connections  of  all  kinds ;  for  he  knew  all  the 
eight  persons  implicated  in  the  trial,  and  appeared 
likewise  to  be  well  informed  in  regard  to  the  spread 
of  the  Anarchistic  teachings  in  America. 

All  his  pamphlets  were  signed:  "The  Unknown." 
In  London,  the  old  man  was  not  a  striking  figure. 
He  rarely  spoke  in  public,  and  the  tide  of  the  revolu- 
tionary movement  of  London  casts  too  many  individ- 
uals on  the  surface  to-day  only  to  swallow  them  up 
again  to-morrow,  to  permit  of  paying  special  atten- 
tion to  the  transient  visitor  in  this  ceaseless  coming 
and  going. 

He  now  made  inquiry  of  the  Englishman  concern- 
ing some  of  those  present.  Auban  leaned  back. 

"Who  is  that?" 

He  pointed  to  a  woman  in  a  simple,   dark  dress, 


The  Eleventh  Hour.  39 

who  was  sitting  near  them.  Her  well-defined  fea- 
tures betrayed  the  liveliest  interest  in  everything  that 
was  going  on  about  her,  and  she  spoke  animatedly 
and  laughingly  with  her  neighbor. 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  the  Englishman.  But 
then  he  remembered  once  having  seen  her  in  a  Ger- 
man club,  and  he  added :  — 

"I  only  know  that  she  is  a  German,  a  German 
Socialist.  Ambitious,  but  with  a  good  heart.  In 
Berlin  she  agitated  a  long  time  for  the  abolition  of 
the  medical  examination  of  prostitutes." 

The  old  man,  curious,  continued  to  put  questions 
to  the  one  standing  before  him. 

"And  to  whom  is  she  talking  now?" 

The  Englishman  looked.  It  was  a  young  man 
whom  he  also  knew  only  slightly. 

"I  believe  he  is  a  poet,"  he  said.     Both  smiled. 

"He  has  written  a  poem  on  social  life." 

"  Have  you  read  it  ?  " 

"Oh,  no;  I  don't  read  German." 

"  He  looks  neither  like  a  poet  nor  like  a  Socialist. 
Does  he  believe  he  can  improve  the  world  with  his 
poems  ?  He  will  one  day  see  how  useless  they  are, 
and  that  people  must  have  bread  before  they  can 
think  of  other  things.  If  one  has  nothing  to  eat, 
poetry  is  at  an  end." 

The  younger  man  smiled  at  the  zeal  of  the  older, 
who  continued,  undisturbed,  while  Auban  studied 
the  crowd. 

"It  is  possible  to  write  the  tenderest  love  poems 
and  like  a  butcher  to  witness  the  bloodiest  atrocities. 
And  one  will  write  a  public  hymn  in  honor  of  the 
'brave  soldiers,'  the  murderers,  who  return  from  the 
battles  dripping  with  blood.  One  can  sing  of 
the  'sufferings  of  the  people,'  and  the  next  hour,  in 
the  ball-room,  kiss  the  hand  of  'her  ladyship,'  who 
has  just  before  boxed  the  ears  of  her  servant.  But 
what  are  we  talking  about?  Tell  me  rather  who  is 
the  gentleman  yonder?" 


40  The  Anarchists. 

"  One  of  our  parliamentary  candidates.  A  scamp 
without  character.  A  deelaimer.  If  he.  had  the 
power,  he  would  be  a  tyrant.  But  as  it  is,  he  does 
enough  mischief." 


Now  both  began  to  give  their  attention  to  the 
meeting.  Auban  was  still  absorbed  in  his  thoughts. 
The  chairs  on  the  platform  had  become  occupied  by 
the  representatives  and  delegates  of  the  societies 
which  had  called  the  mass-meeting.  Among  them 
were  several  women.  The  chairman's  seat  was  occu- 
pied by  a  pale  man  in  the  dress  of  a  High  Church 
clergyman,  about  forty  years  old.  He  was  greeted 
with  applause  when  his  election  as  chairman  was 
announced.  Auban  knew  him;  he  was  a  Christian 
Socialist,  who  had  for  many  years  been  active  among 
the  poor  of  the  East  End.  On  account  of  his  opinions 
he  had  been  deprived  of  his  living.  The  Church  is 
the  greatest  enemy  of  character. 

He  now  called  the  meeting  to  order.  He  said  that 
it  was  composed  of  people  of  the  most  divergent 
views,  of  Radicals  and  Anti-Socialists  as  well  as  of 
Anarchists  and  Socialists,  but  who  were  united  in 
the  one  wish  to  protest  against  the  violation  of  the 
right  of  free  speech.  He  was  no  Anarchist  like  the 
Chicago  condemned;  he  had  a  strong  aversion  to  their 
doctrines;  but  he  demanded  for  their  disciples  and 
followers  exactly  the  same  or  even  greater  liberty 
than  he — the  minister  of  a  Christian  church  — 
claimed  for  himself  in  the  expression  of  his  opin- 
ions. All  had  an  equal  right  to  serve  what  they 
had  learned,  and  what  they  held  to  be  the  truth,  and 
therefore  he  demanded  in  the  name  of  his  God, 
and  in  the  name  of  humanity,  the  release  of  these 
men. 

When  he  had  finished,  a  large  numberof  telegrams, 
addresses  of  sympathy,  and  letters  from  all  parts  of 
England  were  read.  Many  of  them  were  received 
with  enthusiasm. 


The  Eleventh  Hour.  41 

Auban  knew  that  many  of  these  societies  had  a 
membership  of  thousands ;  among  the  names  he  heard 
read  were  some  of  the  greatest  influence.  The  writers 
whose  works  everybody  read  —  what  were  they  all 
doing,  all  who  were  as  surely  convinced  as  he  was 
of  the  atrocity  of  that  sentence  ?  They  quieted  their 
conscience  with  a  protest.  What  could  they  have 
done?  Their  influence,  their  position,  their  power, 
—  these  might  perhaps  have  been  strong  and  impres- 
sive enough  to  make  impossible  the  execution  of  that 
deed  in  the  face  of  an  excited  and  general  indigna- 
tion that  had  arisen.  But  their  name  and  their  pro- 
test,—  these  died  away  here  before  the  few  without 
effect.  They,  too,  were  the  slaves  of  their  time  who 
might  have  been  its  true  masters. 

Auban  was  roused  from  his  thoughts  by  a  voice 
which  he  had  often  heard.  Beside  the  table  on  the 
platform  was  standing  a  little  woman  dressed  in 
black.  Beneath  the  brow  which  was  half  hidden  as 
by  a  wreath  by  her  thick,  short-cropped  hair,  shone  a 
pair  of  black  eyes  beaming  with  enthusiasm.  The 
white  ruffle  and  the  simple,  almost  monk-like,  long, 
undulating  garment  seemed  to  belong  to  another  cen- 
tury. A  few  only  in  the  meeting  seemed  to  know 
her;  but  whoever  knew  her,  knew  also  that  she  was 
the  most  faithful,  the  most  diligent,  and  the  most 
impassioned  champion  of  Communism  in  England. 
She,  too,  called  herself  an  Anarchist. 

She  was  not  a  captivating  speaker,  but  her  voice 
had  that  iron  ring  of  unalterable  conviction  and  hon- 
esty which  often  moves  the  listener  more  powerfully 
than  the  most  brilliant  eloquence. 

She  gave  a  picture  of  all  the  events  that  had  pre- 
ceded the  arrest  and  conviction  of  the  comrades  in 
Chicago.  Clearly  —  step  by  step  —  they  passed  be- 
fore the  eyes  of  the  listeners.  .  .  . 

She  told  of  the  rise  and  progress  of  the  eight-hour 
movement  in  America ;  of  the  efforts  of  former  years 
to  enforce  the  eight-hour  labor  day  among  the  gov- 


42  The  Anarchists. 

eminent  employees ;  of  their  successes.  .  .  .  She  ex- 
plained how  it  had  happened  that  the  revolutionaries 
of  Chicago  joined  the  movement  without  deceiving 
themselves  as  to  its  significance  and  real  importance; 
of  the  untiring  efforts  of  the  International  AVorking- 
men's  Association;  and  how  those  men  who  were 
now  facing  death  had  been  forced  to  take  the  lead  in 
the  movement.  .  .  . 

Then  she  attempted  to  describe  the  tremendous 
excitement  which  had  preceded  the  May  days  of  the 
previous  year:  the  feverish  tension  in  the  circles  of 
the  workingmen,  the  rising  fear  in  those  of  the  ex- 
ploiters. .  .  .  The  rapid  growth  of  the  strikers  up 
to  the  day,  the  first  of  May,  which,  looked  forward 
to  by  all,  was  to  bring  about  the  decision.  .  .  . 

Then  she  conjured  before  the  eyes  of  the  meeting 
the  days  of  May  themselves;  "more  than  twenty- 
five  thousand  workingmen  lay  down  their  work  on 
one  and  the  same  day;  within  three  days  their  num- 
ber has  doubled.  It  is  a  general  strike.  The  rage 
of  the  capitalists  is  comparable  only  to  their  fear. 
Evening  after  evening  meetings  are  held  in  many 
places  of  the  city.  The  government  sends  its  police- 
men and  orders  them  to  fire  into  one  of  these  peace- 
able gatherings:  five  workingmen  are  left  dead  on 
the  spot.  .  .  . 

"Who  has  called  the  murderers  of  those  men  to 
account?  Nobody." 

She  paused.  One  could  hear  her  emotion  in  the 
tone  of  her  voice  when  she  continued :  — 

"  The  following  evening  the  Anarchists  call  a  meet- 
ing at  the  Haymarket.  It  is  orderly;  notwithstand- 
ing the  occurrences  of  the  previous  days,  the  addresses 
of  the  speakers  are  so  little  incendiary  that  the  mayor 
of  Chicago  —  ready  to  disperse  the  meeting  on  the 
first  unlawful  word  —  notifies  the  police  inspector 
that  he  may  send  his  men  home.  But  instead  of 
doing  so,  he  orders  them  again  to  march  upon  the 
meeting.  At  this  moment  a  bomb  flies  from  an 


Ths  Eleventh  Hour.  43 

unknown  hand  into  the  attacking  ranks.  The  police 
open  a  murderous  fire.  .  .  . 

"  Who  threw  the  bomb  ?  Perhaps  the  hand  of  one 
who  in  despair  wished  thus  to  defend  himself  against 
this  new  slaughter;  perhaps  - — this  was  the  prevail- 
ing opinion  in  the  circles  of  the  workingmen  of 
Chicago  —  one  of  the  commissioned  agents  of  the 
police  themselves ;  who  does  not  know  the  means  to 
which  our  enemies  resort  in  order  to  destroy  us  ?  If 
this  was  the  case,  he  did  his  business  even  better 
than  had  been  expected. 

"  Who  threw  the  bomb  ?  We  know  it  as  little  as 
those  eight  men  know  it,  who,  in  the  tremendous 
consternation  which  spread  over  Chicago  from  this 
hour,  were  seized  at  hazard,  as  they  bore  the  best- 
known  names  of  the  movement,  although  several  of 
them  had  not  even  been  present  at  the  meeting.  But 
what  of  that  ?  The  court  was  as  little  deterred  from 
arresting  them  as  later  on  from  finding  them  guilty 
of  secret  conspiracy,  notwithstanding  some  of  them 
had  never  before  seen  each  other. 

"Why  were  they  convicted?"  she  closed.  "Not 
because  they  have  committed  a  crime  —  no ;  because 
thejr  were  the  champions  of  the  poor  and  the  oppressed ! 
Not  because  they  are  murderers  —  no;  because  they 
dared  to  open  the  eyes  of  the  slaves  to  the  causes  of 
their  slavery.  These  men  whose  spotless  character 
could  not  be  soiled  even  by  the  most  venomous  attacks 
of  the  'organs  of  public  opinion,'  will  be  hanged 
because  they  followed  their  convictions  unselfishly, 
nobly,  and  faithfully  in  an  age  when  only  he  goes 
unharmed  who  as  a  liar  keeps  the  company  of  liars !  " 

She  stopped.  All  had  listened  attentively.  Many 
applauded. 

Auban  followed  her  with  his  penetrating  eyes  as 
she  descended  the  steps  of  the  platform  into  the  hall 
and,  on  finding  all  the  seats  occupied,  carelessly 
seated  herself  on  one  of  the  steps.  It  seemed  as  if 
he  wished  to  look  through  the  hand  which  she  was 


44  The  Anarchists. 

holding  before  her  eyes  as  if  in  bodily  pain,  into  her 
very  soul,  to  find  there  also  the  confirmation  of  his 
deepest  conviction,  which  is  the  last  to  be  acquired,— 
the  selfishness  of  all  being.  And  even  here  he  did 
not  for  a  moment  hesitate  to  confess  that  this  woman 
must  be  happier  in  this  life  of  toil,  sacrifice,  and 
privation,  than  she  would  have  been  had  she  contin- 
ued in  that  other  in  which  she  had  grown  up,  in 
wealth  and  ease,  and  which  she  had  left  —  as  she  and 
all  others  believed  —  to  serve  "  the  cause  of  human- 
ity," while  in  reality,  even  if  entirely  unconsciously, 
she  followed  the  call  of  her  own  happiness. 

The  noise  and  talking  in  the  hall  which  had  lasted 
several  minutes  subsided,  and  Auban  again  turned 
his  thoughts  and  his  attention  upon  the  platform, 
where  the  chairman  announced  the  name  of  the  next 
speaker. 

" Look,"  said  Mr.  Marell  to  Auban.  "  That  young 
man  comes  from  Chicago.  He  will  tell  you  some- 
thing about  things  there.  He  has  just  come  from 
Liverpool." 

Auban  listened  attentively :  the  American  told  of 
some  of  the  details  of  the  trial  which  were  not  so 
Avell  known,  but  which  gave  a  better  idea  of  the 
nature  of  the  proceedings  against  the  indicted  men 
than  anything  else.  He  described  the  empanelling 
of  the  jury  by  quoting  the  words  of  the  bailiff :  "  I 
have  this  case  in  hand,  and  I  know  what  I  am  to  do. 
These  men  are  bound  to  be  hanged.  I  summon  such 
men  as  the  defendants  must  challenge — until  they 
come  to  those  whom  they  must  accept."  .  .  .  He 
described  the  persons  of  the  State's  witnesses,  the 
lying  scoundrel  who  was  bribed  by  the  police  to  say 
anything  that  was  required  of  him  .  .  .  the  two 
other  witnesses  for  the  prosecution  who  had  been 
given  the  alternative,  either  to  hang  with  the  rest  or 
to  go  free  and  tell  the  "truth."  "Will  such  people 
not  say  anything  that  may  be  required  of  them  if 
they  see  before  them  death  or  liberty?  "  exclaimed  the 


The  Eleventh  Hour.  45 

speaker,  and  loud  applause  from  all  parts  of  the  hall 
greeted  his  words.  Then  when  he  quoted  the  words 
of  that  brutal  and  notorious  police  captain :  "  If  I  could 
only  get  a  thousand  of  these  Socialists  and  Anar- 
chists together,  without  their  damned  women  and 
children,  I  would  make  short  work  of  them";  and 
when  he  spoke  of  that  corrupt  "paid  and  packed 
jury  "  whom  the  money  lords  of  Chicago  had  offered 
a  reward  of  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  for  their 
"services  "  through  the  mouth  of  one  of  their  organs, 
a  mighty  storm  of  indignation  and  contempt  broke 
forth.  Cries  rose  from  the  audience,  threats  were 
heard ;  and  the  excitement  in  the  ranks  of  the  audi- 
ence was  still  great,  when  the  young  American  had 
already  stepped  down  and  given  place  to  a  little  man, 
in  a  long  coat,  with  a  long,  heavy  beard,  hair  grow- 
ing already  thin,  and  of  unmistakable  Slav  type; 
and  the  cries  of  indignation  and  wrath  suddenly 
changed  into  jubilant  exclamations  of  recognition 
and  veneration,  of  enthusiasm  and  affection. 

Evidently  there  were  not  many  among  these  thou- 
sands that  did  not  know  this  man,  who  was  given  a 
warmer  reception  than  any  one  of  the  English 
leaders ;  that  had  not  already  heard  of  his  remarkable 
life  and  fate,  of  his  miraculous  escape  from  the  forts 
of  Petersburg  which  was  to  land  him  in  France, 
there  again  to  be  imprisoned,  and  to  finally  offer  him 
a  last  retreat  here  in  England,  —  heard  of  him  those 
contradictory  and  conflicting  rumors  which  of  them- 
selves shed  a  shimmer  of  the  strange  and  the  excep- 
tional over  one  of  high  rank ;  that  did  not  know  what 
this  man  had  done  and  was  still  doing  for  "the 
cause."  It  was  his  writings,  scattered  throughout 
the  revolutionary  organs  of  "Anarchistic  Commu- 
nism "  of  all  nationalities,  which  had  for  many  years 
formed  the  inexhaustible  and  often  sole  source  of  the 
Communistic  Anarchists.  Everybody  knew  them; 
everybody  read  and  re-read  them.  His  personal  power, 
which  he  had  once  devoted  to  the  secret  movement 


46  The  Anarchists. 

in  Russia,  now  belonged  to  the  International;  and 
certainly  the  latter  had  gained  as  much  in  him  as  the 
former  had  lost.  This  power  could  never  be  replaced ; 
and  because  everybody  knew  this,  everybody  was 
grateful  to  him  who  saw  him. 

He  was  a  Communist.  The  paper  which  appeared 
in  Paris,  and  which,  after  his  stay  there  became 
impossible,  he  managed  from  London,  called  itself 
"Communistic- Anarchistic."  In  splendid  essays, 
which  appeared  in  one  of  the  foremost  English 
magazines,  he  had  attempted  to  lay  down  the  "scien- 
tific foundations  "  of  his  ideal,  which  he  believed  was 
rightly  called  Anarchy.  But  even  these  labors, 
which  gave  a  general  idea  of  the  extent  of  the  infor- 
mation of  the  author  in  all  matters  of  Socialism  and 
of  his  enormous  reading,  did  not  enable  Auban  to 
picture  to  himself  the  possibility  of  the  realization  of 
these  theories.  And  he  saw  also  the  delusive  faith 
in  this  new  and  yet  so  old  religion  yielding  nothing 
except  a  new  evil  harvest  of  despotism,  confusion, 
and  most  intense  misery.  .  .  . 

In  the  meantime  he  who  had  roused  these  thoughts 
was  waiting  in  nervous  excitement  —  how  many, 
many  times  had  he  thus  been  standing  by  the  shore 
of  the  surging  sea  of  humanity !  —  for  the  burst  of 
applause  that  rose  to  him  to  subside.  Then  he  began 
in  that  hard,  clear  English  of  the  Russian  who 
speaks  the  languages  of  the  countries  in  which  he 
lives.  At  first  it  seemed  as  if  one  could  not  under- 
stand him ;  three  minutes  later  it  was  impossible  to 
lose  a  single  word  of  his  animated  and  effective 
address.  "What  is  the  meaning  of  the  events  in 
Chicago?"  he  asked.  And  he  answered:  "Revenge 
upon  prisoners  who  have  been  taken  in  the  great 
conflict  between  the  two  great  classes.  We  protest 
against  it  as  against  a  cruelty  and  an  injustice.  It 
is  the  fault  of  our  enemies,"  he  exclaimed,  "if  such 
crimes  make  the  conflict  ever  more  terrible,  ever 
more  bitter,  ever  more  irreconcilable.  This  is  not 


The  Eleventh  Hour.  47 

an  affair  that  concerns  only  the  American  people ;  the 
wrong  done  against  the  workingmen  of  that  country 
is  equally  a  wrong  against  us.  The  labor  movement 
is  by  its  whole  nature  international;  and  it  is  the 
duty  of  the  workingmen  of  every  country  to  call 
upon  their  fellow-workingmen  in  other  countries  and 
to  uphold  them  in  their  resistance  to  those  crimes 
which  are  committed  against  all  alike !  " 

He  did  not  speak  long ;  but  his  speech  excited  both 
himself  and  his  listeners.  The  unmistakable  earnest- 
ness of  his  words,  his  flashing  eye,  his  passionate 
vehemence,  awakened  in  the  indifferent  listener  a 
presentiment  of  the  significance  of  a  cause  which  he 
did  not  understand,  and  strengthened  in  its  followers 
the  belief  in  its  justice  and  its  grandeur.  He  left 
the  platform  almost  before  he  finished  speaking,  as 
if  he  wished  to  avoid  the  applause  which  was  newly 
bursting  forth,  and  the  next  moment  was  again  sit- 
ting among  the  audience,  serious  and  pale,  attentively 
following  the  words  of  his  successor  on  the  platform, 
who  —  as  a  delegate  of  one  of  the  great  London 
liberal  clubs  —  remarked  that  the  events  which  were 
to-day  transpiring  on  the  other  side  might  to-morrow 
take  place  in  their  own  country.  .  .  . 

Auban  no  longer  heard  what  any  of  the  speakers 
were  saying.  He  was  absorbed  in  thought.  He 
was  still  sitting,  as  an  hour  ago,  motionless,  his  feet 
crossed  over  the  projecting  cane,  his  hands  resting 
on  the  handle,  and  staring  fixedly  before  him.  The 
voices  of  the  speakers  as  well  as  the  applause  of  the 
crowd  —  all  this  seemed  to  him  afar  off.  Often  — 
while  wandering  through  the  roaring  streets  —  had 
he  been  overcome  by  this  feeling  of  absence:  then 
he  thought  of  those  days  when,  with  a  sigh  of  relief, 
mankind  had  once  again  rid  itself  of  one  of  its 
tyrants,  and  of  the  days  when  that  worthless  and 
curse-laden  life  had  been  avenged  upon  many  dear 
and  priceless  ones.  And  he  thought  of  the  heroic 
forms  of  those  martyrs,  of  their  silent  sacrifice,  and 


48  The  Anarchists. 

of  their  single-hearted  devotion  to  an  idea.  He 
thought  of  them  whenever  he  saw  one  of  those  upon 
whose  brow  there  still  seemed  to  hover  the  shadow 
of  those  days.  But  no  longer  did  it  appear  to  him 
as  surpassingly  grand  and  enviable  so  to  live  and  so 
to  die.  The  glow  of  passion  which  had  consumed 
his  youth  had  fled,  and  lay  in  ashes  beneath  the  cool 
breath  of  the  understanding  which  constantly  and 
ceaselessly  battles  against  all  our  confused  feelings, 
until  with  the  belief  in  justice  it  has  taken  from  us 
the  last,  and  has  itself  become  the  only  rightful  guide 
and  director  of  our  life. 

Too  much  blood  had  he  seen  shed,  not  to  wish  at 
last  to  behold  the  victories  of  peace.  But  how  was 
that  possible  if  the  goal  became  ever  less  clear,  the 
wishes  ever  more  impossible,  the  passions  ever  more 
unbridled  ? 

Again  those  days  of  which  he  was  thinking  were 
to  be  repeated !  Again  was  the  blood  of  the  innocent 
to  flow  in  streams,  to  conceal  the  countless  crimes 
committed  by  authority  against  the  weak,  the  irreso- 
lute, the  blind!  What  was  it  that  all  these  people 
wanted  who  seemed  to  be  so  enthusiastic,  who  spoke 
in  such  eloquent  accents  of  truth  ?  Protest  ?  When 
had  privileged  wrong,  acquired  by  the  power  of 
authority,  ever  heeded  a  protest  ? 

But  why  were  they  the  downtrodden  ones?  Be- 
cause they  were  the  weaker.  But  what  is  to  blame  ? 
Is  it  not  as  great  a  blame  to  be  weak  as  to  be  strong 
if  there  is  any  blame  about  it  ?  Why  were  they  not 
the  stronger? 

With  the  cruel  severity  of  his  penetrating  logic  he 
continued  to  examine  and  dissect.  The  pain  which 
here  spoke  so  eloquently  through  the  looks  and  words 
of  all,  the  pain  of  being  obliged  to  witness  the  crime, 
was  it  not  less  than  that  which  the  attempt  to  actually 
prevent  its  commission  would  have  caused?  Why 
else  did  they  content  themselves  with  protesting, 
with  merely  protesting  ? 


The  Eleventh  Hour.  49 

Surely,  they  might  have  been  the  stronger.  But 
for  what  other  reason  were  they  not  the  stronger  than 
that  they  were  the  weaker  ? 

There  was  a  great  emptiness  and  coldness  in  him 
after  the  flaming  passion.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if 
he  were  suspended  in  an  icy  eternity  without  space 
and  limits,  and  in  the  anguish  of  death  trying  to 
catch  hold  of  airy  nothing. 

The  old  man  who  was  sitting  beside  him  looked 
into  Auban's  face  at  this  moment.  It  was  of  an 
ashen  gray,  and  in  his  eyes  gleamed  an  expiring  fire. 

Meanwhile  the  speakers  were  untiringly  following 
each  other  on  the  platform.  The  excitement  seemed 
still  to  be  increasing,  although  no  one  in  the  spacious 
hall  had  remained  unaffected  by  it,  except,  perhaps, 
the  reporters,  who,  in  a  business-like  manner,  were 
making  notes. 

Auban  no  longer  heard  anything.  Once  he  had 
half  risen  as  if  he  had  decided  to  speak.  But  he 
saw  that  the  list  of  speakers  was  not  yet  exhausted, 
and  he  abandoned  the  intention  of  uttering  the  word 
which  was  not  to  be  uttered  that  evening. 

Only  once  -he  looked  up  during  the  last  hour. 
A  name  had  been  announced  which  England  had 
long  ago  indelibly  inscribed  in  the  history  of  her 
poetry  of  the  nineteenth  century  among  the  most 
brilliant ;  of  a  man  who  was  mentioned  as  one  of  the 
regenerators  and  most  active  promoters  of  industrial 
art;  and  who  finally  was  one  of  the  most  thorough 
students  and  most  prominent  champions  of  English 
Socialism.  This  remarkable  and  incomparable  man, 
—  poet,  painter,  and  Socialist  in  one  person,  and  a 
master  in  all,  —  notwithstanding  his  white  hair,  had 
the  animation  and  freshness  of  youth.  Auban  had 
never  forgotten  one  of  his  countless  lectures,  which 
he  was  now  delivering  before  hundreds,  in  one  of 
the  many  small  club-rooms  of  the  Socialist  League 
branches  in  London,  now  before  thousands  in  public 
meetings  in  Edinburgh  or  Glasgow, — "  The  Coming 


50  The  Anarchists. 

Society."  And  never  had  the  picture  of  the  free 
society  risen  more  enticingly  and  delusively  before 
Auban's  eyes  than  under  the  spell  of  these  words 
which  the  poet  had  attempted  to  gift  with  magic 
and  beauty,  the  artist  with  plasticity  and  volume, 
the  thinker  with  argumentative  power  and  convic- 
tion. "  How  beautiful  it  would  be  if  it  could  be  so  — 
how  everything  would  be  dissolved  in  harmony  and 
peace,"  had  been  his  thoughts  then. 

An  old  bard  and  patriarch,  and  yet  on  the  other 
hand  the  most  natural,  the  most  healthful  old  Eng- 
lishman—  the  self-made  man  —  in  blue,  collarless 
shirt  and  most  comfortable  dress,  he  was  standing 
there  and  talking  rather  than  speaking,  of  the  days 
of  Chicago. 

The  applause  with  which  his  coming  and  going 
had  been  greeted  gave  proof  of  the  popularity  of  this 
man  whose  interest  and  energy  for  the  cause  of  the 
social  movement  seemed  to  know  no  fatigue. 

It  was  long  past  ten  o'clock  when  the  chairman 
rose  to  read  the  resolution  in  his  clear,  loud  voice. 
The  hands  flew  in  the  air  —  there  was  not  one  in 
opposition ;  the  resolution  was  unanimously  carried. 
A  cablegram  was  sent  to  New  York,  where  on  the 
same  occasion  a  demonstrative  meeting  was  to  take 
place  the  next  day:  it  bore  the  good  wishes  of  the 
assembled  across  the  ocean. 

Then  the  hall  began  slowly  to  be  vacated.  The 
eagerly  talking,  excited  crowd  pushed  gradually 
through  the  doors  into  the  open  air;  the  reporters 
gathered  their  sheets,  comparing  points  here  and 
there;  the  platform  was  being  deserted.  Only  the 
woman  who  had  spoken  first  was  still  standing  beside 
the  chairman,  the  Atheist  and  Communist  beside 
the  minister  of  the  Church  and  Christian  Socialist 
Democrat. 

She  had  probably  asked  for  some  names  and  notes 
for  her  little  four-paged  monthly  paper.  As  Auban 
observed  the  two,  it  occurred  to  him  how  in  their 


The  Eleventh  Hour.  51 

innermost  nature  their  views  touched  each  other,  and 
how  it  was  after  all  only  sham  walls  that  they  saw 
standing  between  them.  And  further,  in  what  irrec- 
oncilable and  sharp  opposition  he  stood  to  what 
bound  them  together! 

After  he  had  warmly  taken  leave  of  the  old  gentle- 
man, whom  the  young  American  was  still  holding 
back,  he  walked  away  slowly  and  alone. 


The  comrades  with  their  publications  were  still 
standing  at  the  doors,  each  calling  out  the  name  of 
his  paper. 

Auban  recognized  one  of  them  who  belonged  to 
the  "  Autonomie,"  a  young  man  with  a  blonde  beard 
and  friendly  features.  He  inquired  of  him  concern- 
ing Trupp,  and  received  the  assurance  that  he  had 
not  been  present.  As  he  was  about  to  pass  out  he 
felt  a  slap  on  his  shoulder.  He  turned  round.  Be- 
fore him  stood  a  strange  old  man  whose  face  certainly 
no  one  ever  forgot  after  having  once  seen  it.  It 
was  an  old,  sunken,  wrinkled,  sharply  cast  face ;  the 
mouth  lay  back,  so  that  the  unshaved  chin  stood  out 
prominently ;  the  upper  lip  was  covered  by  a  closely 
cropped,  bristly  moustache ;  the  eyes  were  hid  behind 
a  pair  of  large  steel  spectacles,  but  flashing  in 
moments  of  excitement  and  still  giving  an  expression 
of  boldness  to  this  old  face  which  trouble  and  care 
had  changed,  only  to  bring  out  more  sharply  its 
characteristic  features  without  being  able  to  erase 
them.  But  otherwise  the  form  of  this  old  man 
seemed  bent  by  the  heavy  burden  of  an  immense, 
over-stocked  leathern  bag  which  hung  down  at  his 
side.  Around  his  neck  he  wore  a  bright-colored 
woollen  cloth  tied  into  many  knots,  which  covered 
his  shirt,  and  which  even  in  the  hottest  days  of  sum- 
mer he  no  more  thought  of  putting  aside  than  his 
threadbare  brown  cloak. 

"Hello,  old  friend!  "  exclaimed  Auban,  and  shook 


52  The  Anarchists. 

his  hand:  "are  you  here,  too?  Come,  let's  have  a 
drink." 

The  old  man  nodded. 

"But  no  ale,  comrade,  no  brandy;  only  a  glass  of 
lemonade." 

"Have  you  become  a  temperance  man?"  asked 
Auban,  smiling.  But  the  old  man  was  already  going 
ahead. 

They  stepped  into  the  large  public  house  on  the 
next  street-corner.  The  spacious  private  apartment 
at  its  further  end  was  nearly  empty,  while  the  others 
were  overcrowded.  Auban  recognized  a  group  of 
English  Socialists,  who  had  also  just  attended  the 
meeting.  They  shook  hands.  Then  he  took  the 
bag  from  the  old  man,  gave  his  order,  and  they  sat 
down  on  one  of  the  benches.  No  meeting  of  Social- 
ists was  held  in  London  at  which  this  old  man  was 
not  to  be  seen.  How  many  years  was  it  already? 
No  one  knew.  But  every  one  knew  him.  Hearing 
one  of  his  original  speeches  or  addresses,  the  ques- 
tion may  have  been  raised  by  one  or  another,  who 
was  the  old,  gray-headed  man  with  the  sharp  features, 
who  was  hurling  his  wild  accusations  against  the 
existing  order  with  such  youthful  passion  and  defend- 
ing his  ideal  of  fraternity  and  equality  with  such 
youthful  warmth ;  then  he  might  have  received  the 
answer  that  he  was  an  old  colporteur  who  made  his 
living  by  peddling  Socialistic  pamphlets  and  papers. 

But  who  he  really  was  only  few  knew. 

He  was  fond  of  talking,  and  so  he  had  once  told 
Auban  that  he  had  taken  part  in  the  Chartist  move- 
ment; and  Auban  knew  also  that  his  pamphlets  and 
elaborations  were  to  be  found  among  the  millions  of 
books  of  the  British  Museum, —  this  one  really  social 
institute  of  the  world, —  bound,  numbered,  and  cata- 
logued just  as  carefully  as  the  rarest  manuscript  of 
past  centuries. 

"  Well,  what  new  thing  have  you  ?  "  he  asked  when 
they  had  seated  themselves. 


The  Eleventh  Hour.  53 

The  old  man  drew  up  his  leathern  bag  and  unpacked 
it.  At  ease  with  himself  and  indifferent  to  the  peo- 
ple standing  about,  he  spread  out  his  pamphlets  and 
papers  on  the  table  before  him,  while  he  selected  for 
Auban  what  the  latter  did  not  yet  possess,  and  in  a 
loud  voice  made  his  original  remarks  concerning  the 
worth  and  the  worthlessness  of  the  different  things. 

"  What  is  this  ?  "  asked  Auban,  taking  up  a  small 
pamphlet  that  aroused  his  attention.  " '  Impeach- 
ment of  the  Queen,  Cabinet,  Parliament,  and  People. 
Fifty  years  of  brutal  and  bloody  monarchy.'  "  Auban 
looked  surprised  at  the  get-up  of  this  strange  work; 
it  was  set  throughout  in  uniformly  large,  coarse 
letters,  only  a  few  of  which  showed  out  clearly,  while 
the  rest  were  recognizable  in  consequence  of  their 
disproportionately  large  size ;  as  the  paper  was  nearly 
cut  through  by  the  irregular  print,  only  one  side  was 
printed,  and  each  two  leaves  pasted  together;  the 
whole  pamphlet  —  eight  such  leaves  —  was  labori- 
ously and  unevenly  trimmed  with  the  scissors,  and 
Auban  examined  it  with  some  surprise.  He  read  a 
few  lines  which,  by  a  strange  display  and  use  of  v 
punctuation  marks,  formed  a  violent  impeachment 
of  the  Queen  in  the  lapidary  style.  "  Revolt,  workers, 
revolt!  Heads  off!!  "  he  read  in  letters  a  centimetre 
high  on  one  of  the  following  pages. 

"What  is  this?"  he  asked. 

A  smile  crept  over  the  face  of  the  old  man.  "  That, 
is  my  jubilee  present  to  the  Queen,"  he  exclaimed. 

"But  why  in  this  primitive  form?" 

The  old  man  shook  his  gray  head. 

"Look!  "  said  he,  taking  off  his  spectacles.  "My 
old  eyes  no  longer  see  anything.  So  I  must  have 
recourse  to  an  expedient  and  use  large  letters  which 
I  can/eeZ,  with  my  finger  tips,  one  after  the  other. 
There  is  no  printer's  mistake,  only  the  punctuation." 

"And  you  printed  this  yourself?" 

"  Set  it  with  my  fingers,  without  eyes  —  and  with- 
out manuscript,  out  of  my  head,  —  printed  without  a 


54  The  Anarchists. 

press,  always  one  side  at  a  time,  stitched  and  pub- 
lished." 

"But  that  was  a  tremendous  piece  of  work." 

"No  matter.  But  it  is  good.  The  workingmen 
must  read  that! " 

Auban  looked  astonished  at  the  unsightly  print, 
and  thought  with  a  sort  of  admiration  of  the  immense 
toil  which  the  getting  up  of  these  few  pages  must 
have  cost  the  old  man.  He  wondered  whether  in  the 
age  of  the  Marinoni  press  there  was  another  such 
print,  so  grotesque  in  its  exterior,  recalling  the  be- 
ginnings of  the  printer's  art  of  Gutenberg.  Auban 
read:  " Fifty  years  of  increasing  luxurious  debauch- 
ery and  crime,  committed  by  the  royal  aristocratic 
and  damnable  classes."  Thus  it  began,  and  went  on 
with  a  confused  enumeration  of  the  costs  of  the  wars, 
a  haphazard  list  of  names  gathered  from  personal 
recollections,  to  close  with  a  violent  imprecation: 
"  Oh,  may  the  curses  of  a  thousand  murdered,  starved 
people  come  over  you,  Victoria  Guelph,  upon  your 
brutal  and  bloody  monarchy";  and  with  growing 
astonishment  Auban  read  also  the  last  page,  from 
which  in  formless  and  confused  words  shot  forth  a 
hot  revolt. 

The  Englishmen,  too,  who  knew  the  old  man, 
approached  him,  filled  with  curiosity.  Laughingly 
they  bought  what  copies  he  had  with  him. 

Then  the  old  man  put  his  things  into  the  bag 
again,  threw  it  over  his  shoulder  with  a  powerful 
jerk,  pulled  his  hats  —  he  always  wore  two  felt  hats, 
one  drawn  over  the  other ;  this  was  one  of  his  obsti- 
nate peculiarities  —  over  his  gray  head,  and  left  the 
place,  accompanied  by  Auban,  with  a  loud,  harsh 
laugh.  They  went  together  to  Moorgate  Station. 
The  old  man  talked  continually,  half  to  himself,  and 
so  indistinctly  that  Auban  could  understand  the 
other  half  only  with  difficulty ;  but  he  knew  him  and 
quietly  let  him  have  his  way,  for  it  was  in  this  man- 
ner that  the  old  man  always  relieved  himself  of  his 
anger. 


The  Eleventh  Hour.  55 

After  he  had  already  taken  leave  of  him,  Auban 
still  saw  him  walking  on,  gesticulating  and  mutter- 
ing, before  him.  Then  he  disappeared  in  the  flowing 
stream,  and  Auban  stepped  to  the  ticket-office  of 
Moorgate  Station. 


On  the  middle  platform  of  the  immense  under- 
ground space,  he  again  met  a  number  of  acquaint- 
ances who  were  waiting  there  and  talking  together. 

Among  them  were  some  of  the  speakers  of  the 
evening.  Auban  sat  down  .wearily  on  one  of  the 
benches. 

Trains  came  mailing  in  and  out ;  up  and  down  the 
wooden  steps  the  crowds  jostled  and  thronged.  The 
station  was  filled  by  the  white-gray  smoke  and  steam 
of  the  engines.  It  floated  over  the  platforms  and  the 
people  standing  there,  curled  round  the  countless 
blackened  pillars,  rafters,  and  posts,  laid  itself  caress- 
ingly like  a  veil  against  the  ceiling  far  above,  and 
finally  sought  its  way  through  the  ventilators  into 
the  open  street;  into  the  life,  the  bustle,  and  roar  of 
London. 

Auban  followed  it  with  his  eyes.  "  Well,  comrade," 
suddenly  asked  a  man  sitting  beside  him,  an  English 
writer  of  social  essays  and  works,  "what  do  you 
think  of  Chicago?" 

He  was  not  sympathetic  to  Auban,  and  it  was  not 
unknown  to  him  that  the  latter  never  made  a  secret 
of  his  sympathies  and  antipathies.  Nevertheless,  he 
obtruded  himself  on  him  on  all  occasions.  Auban 
knew  very  well  that,  like  everything  else,  he  would 
work  up  these  terrible  events  about  which  he  had 
inquired,  with  an  indifferent  heart.  He  looked  at 
him  coldly,  and  without  answering  him. 

This  steady  and  indifferent  look  became  intolera- 
ble to  the  other. 

"Well,"  he  said  again,  "don't  you  think  that  in 
the  defence  of  its  contemptible  privileges  no  infamy 
will  be  infamous  enough  to  the  bourgeoisie  ?  " 


56  The  Anarchists. 

"Certainly,  sir,"  said  Auban;  "would  you,  if  you 
were  at  the  helm,  pursue  a  different  policy  ?"  and  he 
looked  at  his  questioner,  with  that  sarcastic  and 
contemptuous  smile  for  which  he  was  so  hated  by  all 
whom  he  did  not  love.  And  without  a  further  word 
he  rose,  nodded,  and  boarded,  heavily  and  slowly, 
the  puffing  train,  which,  after  a  minute  of  noise, 
confusion,  and  slamming  of  doors,  carried  him  in 
mad  haste  in  the  direction  of  King's  Cross. 


CHAPTER   III. 

THE   UNEMPLOYED. 

THE  metropolis  on  the  Thames,  the  "  greatest  wart 
of  the  earth,"  was  again  having  its  annual  show: 
the  gloomy  spectacle  of  those  crowds  whom  only 
excess  of  misery  —  the  spectre  of  starvation  —  could 
drive  forth  from  their  dens,  into  the  heart  of  the  city, 
to  that  spot  of  world-wide  fame  which  is  dedicated 
to  the  memory  of  past  days  of  "glory  and  greatness, " 
there  to  consider  the  question :  "  What  must  we  do 
to  live  to-morrow  ?  How  pass  this  long  winter  with- 
out work  and  without  bread  ?"  .  .  . 

For  these  unfortunate  creatures  who  had  long  ago 
learned  that  there  are  no  rights  for  them  on  earth, 
either  to  a  foot  of  its  soil,  or  to  the  least  of  its  goods, 
had  now  lost  even  their  last  "right";  the  right  of 
slaving  for  others,  —  and  were  standing  face  to  face 
with  that  terrible  spectre  which  is  the  most  faithful 
companion  of  poverty  throughout  their  whole  life, 
—  hunger. 

It  was  despair  that  drove  these  people,  whose 
modesty  and  contentment  were  so  great  as  to  cease 
to  be  comprehensible,  out  into  public  view. 

The  damp,  cheerless  October  was  approaching  its 
end.  The  days  were  growing  shorter  and  the  wild 
hours  of  night-life  longer. 

The  broad,  cold  area  of  Trafalgar  Square  was  be- 
ginning to  fill  with  the  forms  of  misery  already  in 
the  early  morning  hours. 

From  all  parts  of  the  city  they  came:  happy  he 
whom  misery  had  not  yet  forced  to  give  up  his  own 
home,  the  filthy  hole  in  the  cellar  or  in  the  fifth 

57 


58  The  Anarchists. 

story,  or  the  corner  of  a  room ;  happy  he,  too,  who 
by  the  aid  of  a  lucky  chance  had  been  able  to  scrape 
enough  together  on  this  day,  to  find  shelter  in  one 
of  the  lodging-houses ;  but  in  most  of  these  sickly, 
pale,  and  tired  faces  was  but  too  plainly  to  be  read 
that  they  had  "rested"  through  the  cold  night  on 
one  of  the  benches  along  the  Thames  Embankment, 
or  in  a  gateway,  or  passage-way  of  Covent  Garden. 

The  "unemployed!  "  Yes;  they  were  again  caus- 
ing a  great  deal  of  talk  in  this  year  of  grace !  For 
thirty-five  years  already  had  they  thus,  year  after 
year,  at  the  beginning  of  winter,  stepped  into  the 
presence  of  wealth.  And  every  year  their  numbers 
increased,  every  year  their  assurance  became  more 
confident,  every  year  their  demands  more  definite! 
The  February  riots  of  1886,  which  had  not  passed 
without  attacks  upon  property,  were  still  in  every- 
body's memory.  They  had  nothing  in  common  with 
any  party ;  they  had  no  avowed  leaders  in  Parliament 
House  who  "  championed  "  their  rights :  hunger  was 
their  leader  and  driver ;  no  organization  bound  them, 
but  misery  welded  them  together.  Whence  in  the 
days  of  political  and  social  convulsions  come  suddenly 
the  unknown  helpers,  like  rats  from  their  holes? 
Ah!  they  are  the  recruits  of  the  great  army  of  silence 
who  were  never  counted  and  who  yet  so  often  turned 
the  scales.  .  .  .  They  are  the  members  of  that  great 
mass  which  is  called  the  people :  the  disfranchised, 
the  outlawed,  the  nameless  ones,  those  who  never 
were  and  suddenly  are;  a  secret  disclosed  and  a 
shadow  turning  into  substance,  the  apparently  dead 
coming  to  life,  an  ever-disregarded  child  unexpect- 
edly grown  to  manhood,  —  that  is  the  people ! 

It  was  never  taken  into  calculation,  as  it  had  no 
rights ;  now  it  calculates  on  its  own  account,  and  its 
numbers  are  crushing.  ... 

You  liars  who  became  great  in  its  name,  who  com- 
mitted the  crimes  of  your  power  behind  its  cloak, 
how  you  have  suddenly  been  swept  away!  You 


The  Unemployed.  59 

deceived,  betrayed,  and  sold  it;  it  was  a  word,  a 
phantom,  a  nothing,  which  you  manipulated  at  your 
own  will  and  pleasure;  and  now  it  suddenly  rises 
before  you !  Bodily  before  you !  .  .  . 

As  ever  before,  so  in  this  year  the  bourgeoisie  and 
its  government  met  the  unemployed  with  indiffer- 
ence, ignorance,  and  hard-hearteclness.  When  the 
sight  of  them  daily  began  to  become  uncomfortable, 
it  called  its  police  to  drive  them  from  the  Square. 
They  went  to  Hyde  Park;  they  were  permitted  to 
return  to  the  Square,  to  be  again  brutally  dispersed. 

They  drove  them  mad  that  they  might  arrest  them ; 
and  when  they  appeared  before  the  judge,  he  de- 
clared their  processions  as  "theatrical,"  and  no  hand 
was  lifted  to  strike  this  villain  in  the  face;  they 
addressed  themselves  to  the  State  with  the  humble 
petition  for  work,  and  the  State  answered  that  it 
could  not  help  them,  —  but  their  sight  was  not  keen 
enough  to  enable  them  to  see  that  it  was  the  State 
itself  that  ruined  them ;  only  more  tired,  more  hungry, 
more  embittered,  they  returned  from  their  fruitless 
petitioning  of  the  magistrates  —  for  work;  and  when 
the  early  morning  dawned,  crowds  of  them  were 
standing  hungry  and  terribly  excited  before  the  grat- 
ings of  the  docks,  where  daily  a  not  inconsiderable 
number  of  strong  arms  were  in  demand  for  the  load- 
ing and  unloading  of  steamers.  Whoever  by  long 
waiting  and  a  more  reckless  use  of  his  fists  and. 
elbows  succeeded  in  forcing  his  way  to  the  front  and 
securing  a  job,  was  helped  for  one  day.  But  com- 
paratively—  how  few  were  these!  Most  of  them, 
despair  in  their  hearts  and  a  curse  upon  their  lips 
for  this  wretched  life,  returned  to  their  comrades  in 
misery,  to  hear  what  they  would  propose ;  they  had 
"nothing  to  do."  .  .  . 

For  weeks  already  they  had  been  coming  together, 
and  for  weeks  the  London  daily  papers,  delighted  at 
having  new  matter  with  which  to  fill  their  endless 
columns,  were  publishing  long  editorials"  on  the 


60  The  Anarchists. 

* 

question  of  the  "  unemployed  " :  much  wise  precept 

—  and  not  a  trace  of  understanding  of  the  real  causes 
of  this  misery;  many  fine  words  —  and  not  a  single 
way  out  for  the  unfortunate  ones.     Each  had  another 
remedy  for  the  evil,  and  proposed  it  with  the  ridicu- 
lous air  of  infallibility;  but  all  agreed  that  it  was  a 
disgrace  for  our  "orderly  commonwealth"  that  this 
degraded  rabble  should  undertake  to  parade  its  mis- 
ery in  public.     What  of  it  that  they  were  starving 
by  day  and  freezing  by  night,  silently  in  their  remote 
corners  and  holes,  where  no  one  either  saw  or  heard ; 
but  so  to  hurt  the  aesthetic,  tender  feelings  of  good 
society  by  the  daily  exhibition  of  all  this  misery  and 
filth,  what  insolence ! 

It  was  on  a  Sunday  —  the  one  before  the  last  of 
this  cheerless  and  gloomy  month  —  that  Trupp  deter- 
mined to  devote  his  free  afternoon  to  an  attempt  to 
get  a  more  correct  picture  of  the  extent  and  the  sig- 
nificance of  these  gatherings  than  he  was  able  to 
form  from  the  accounts  of  his  comrades  and  fellow- 
workmen  in  the  shop.  At  about  noon  he  had  been 
at  Clerkenwell  Green,  the  old-time  meeting-place  of 
so  many  parties  and  years,  and  had  there  listened 
with  indignation  to  the  latter  portion  of  the  speeches, 
and  was  now  going  with  an  exceptionally  large  pro- 
cession of  unemployed,  headed  by  a  red  flag,  down 
the  Strand  towards  Trafalgar  Square.  He  had  not 
yet  met  an  acquaintance,  but  entered  into  conversa- 
tion with  a  man  marching  beside  him,  who,  on  seeing 
that  he  was  smoking,  asked  him  for  a  little  tobacco, 
"not  to  feel  the  hunger  so";  and  the  conversation, 
notwithstanding  the  fact  that  Trupp  could  not  readily 
express  himself  in  English,  and  hardly  understood 
one-half  of  what  was  said  to  him,  while  he  had  to 
guess  at  the  other,  soon  took  a  lively  turn  after  he 
had  bought  a  few'sandwiches  in  the  nearest  of  Lock- 
hart's  cocoa-shops,  with  his  last  pennies,  for  the 
sickly  and  sleepy-looking  man.  He  still  had  work 

—  for  how  long,  of  course,  he  did  not  know.     It  was 


The   Unemployed.  61 

a  long,  daily  repeated  story  of  suffering  which  the 
other  was  telling  him :  miserably  paid  work  the  whole 
summer  through ;  its  sudden  suspension ;  piece  after 
piece  of  the  scant  furniture  carried  to  the  pawn- 
broker's ;  soon  the  want  of  even  the  most  necessary 
means  of  support;  his  little  child  dead  for  the  want 
of  food ;  the  wife  in  the  workhouse  —  and  he  him- 
self: "I  will  hang  myself  before  I'll  go  there  too," 
he  concluded. 

Trupp  looked  at  him ;  he  was  an  intelligent-look- 
ing, rather  elderly  man ;  then  he  asked  him :  — 

"  How  many  unemployed,  do  you  think,  are  there 
in  London  ?  " 

"Very  many!"  said  the  other.  "Very  many! 
Certainly  more  than  a  hundred  thousand,  and  if  you 
count  the  women  and  children,  still  more !  Half  a 
million !  The  people  who  meet  on  Trafalgar  Square 
form  only  a  small  part,  and  of  those  a  fifth  consists 
of  professional  beggars  and  tramps,  of  pickpockets 
and  idlers,  and  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  unem- 
ployed, who  only  want  honest  work.  But  they  don't 
give  us  any,  and  let  us  starve.  Yesterday  again  we 
called  on  the  Board  of  Works." 

"What's  that?"  interrupted  Trupp,  who  knew 
little  of  the  ramified  institutions  of  the  city. 

"  They  are  the  authorities  who  have  in  charge  the 
erection  of  the  great  city  buildings,  —  their  office  is 
quite  near  the  Square,  —  and  there  was  one  of  the 
speakers  who  explained  that  they  might  make  a  begin- 
ning with  the  works  on  the  Thames,  of  which  so 
much  has  already  been  said,  and  give  employment  to 
a  good  many  people;  and  another  one,  he  spoke  of 
the  building  of  sewers,  and  the  founding  of  villages 
for  the  poor  in  the  vicinity  of  London  —  but  they 
don't  want  to,  they  don't  want  to." 

Trupp  listened  attentively. 

"And  at  the  same  time  two  and  a  half  millions 
pounds  sterling  are  yearly  raised  in  London  for  poor- 
rates  ;  two  millions  alone  by  voluntary  contributions. 
Where  the  money  goes,  I  should  like  to  know !  " 


62  The  Anarchists. 

"Yes,"  said  Trupp;  "those  are  your  servants,  the 
servants  of  the  people  and  the  trustees  of  its  affairs." 

"And  we  also  called  at  police  headquarters,  and 
got  the  answer  that  any  one  who  was  found  without 
work  and  shelterless,  and  who  refused  to  go  to  the 
workhouse,  would  be  punished  with  imprisonment 
at  hard  labor." 

"What  are  you?" 

"  Oh,  I  have  done  many  things  when  I  was  hungry 
and  couldn't  get  my  work.  The  last  time,  till  two 
months  ago,  I  worked  in  a  canning  factory,  made  tin 
boxes  —  every  day  twelve  hours,  never  less,  but  often 
fourteen." 

"  And  how  much  ?  " 

"Well,  when  things  went  well,  .eight  shillings, 
mostly  seven  shillings,  often  only  six  shillings  per 
week." 

For  some  time  Trupp  had  been  living  at  the  East 
End.  He  knew  the  wages  of  the  English  working- 
men.  He  knew  families  of  eight  persons  who 
together  did  not  earn  more  than  twelve  shillings  a 
week,  of  which  they  had  to  pay  four  for  their  hole  of 
a  room.  .  .  .  He  knew  that  among  the  women  and 
girls  who  make  match-boxes  and  bags  a  perpetual 
famine  was  raging. 

Famine  in  the  richest  city  of  the  world!  He 
clenched  his  fists. 

He  himself  earned  more.  He  was  a  very  well- 
informed  and  competent  mechanic,  whose  work  re- 
quired good  judgment.  From  childhood  he  had 
grown  to  manhood  in  this  immense  misery,  the  sight 
of  which  had  never  forsaken  him  in  any  country,  in 
any  city.  But  what  he  saw  in  London  of  mad  luxury 
on  the  one  side,  and  hopeless  misery  on  the  other, 
surpassed  everything. 

He  drew  from  his  pocket  a  crumpled  piece  of  paper, 
which  he  suddenly  remembered,  and  hastily  scanned 
it  while  walking  on.  It  was  the  "  Jubilee  Manifesto" 
of  the  Social  Democratic  Federation. 


The   Unemployed.  63 

He  scanned  the  following  figures :  — • 

Four  millions  of  people  in  Great  Britain  dependent 
on  charity  .  .  .  the  workingmen  not  in  a  position 
to  get  more  than  one-fourth  of  what  they  produce 
.  .  .  thirty  per  cent,  of  the  children  of  the  Board 
Schools  half  starved  .  .  .  fifty-four  persons  died  in 
one  year  of  famine  in  London  .  .  .  eighty  thousand 
women  —  ten  in  a  hundred  —  prostitutes.  .  .  . 

Pictures  from  the  "  Fifty  Years  of  Progress !  " 

"You  are  yourselves  to  blame,"  he  said  to  his 
companion,  while  they  were  passing  through  Fleet 
Street,  the  street  of  the  great  newspapers  whose 
names  were  calling  down  from  all  the  roofs  and  all 
the  walls;  "you  are  yourselves  to  blame,"  and  the 
roar  of  the  ever-swelling  procession,  which  was  seri- 
ously and  threateningly  moving  towards  the  Strand, 
seemed  to  emphasize  the  force  of  his  words  —  "  you 
are  yourselves  to  blame  if  the  earth  which  belongs 
to  you  is  not  yours.  Your  own  thoughtlessness  and 
cowardice,  — these  are  your  worst  enemies.  Not  the 
handful  of  miserable  money-bags  and  idlers,"  he  said, 
contemptuously. 

"Ah,  are  you  a  Socialist?"  said  the  other,  smil- 
ing. 

Trupp  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Look,"  he  exclaimed  aloud,  in  his  bad  and  faulty 
English,  "those  stores  which  you  have  filled  with 
bread  and  which  you  pass  by  hungry ;  those  maga- 
zines which  you  have  rilled  to  bursting  with  clothes, 
to  whom  do  they  belong  if  not  to  you  and  to  your 
shivering  children  ?  " 

There  was  none  among  those  who,  in  the  irresist- 
ible tide  of  the  procession,  had  heard  and  understood 
these  simple  words  who  had  not  assented  to  them; 
but,  silently,  worn  out,  and  infirm  of  will,  they  all 
bore  their  gnawing  hunger  past  the  exhibitions  of 
superfluity.  None  of  these  hands  which  had  always 
toiled  for  others  only,  which  had  always  filled  the 
pockets  of  others  only,  and  which,  themselves  empty, 


64  The  Anarchists. 

were  forever  to  remain  empty,  was  now  stretched 
out  to  take  back  a  small,  an  insignificantly  small, 
part  of  what  was  being  withheld  from  them. 

Silently  and  without  confidence  they  were  moving 
on,  down  the  long  thoroughfares  of  wealth,  —  they 
who  had  been  robbed  of  everything,  and  left  with  noth- 
ing ;  left  with  not  a  foot  of  soil,  with  not  one  of  the 
boasted  rights  of  man,  with  not  even  the  most  necessary 
means  of  support,  as  a  terrible  arraignment  of  all  the 
institutions  of  an  earthly  justice,  as  an  unavoidable, 
unanswerable  denial  of  the  existence  of  a  divine 
justice,  —  and  they,  they  were  described  as  a  disgrace 
of  their  age,  they  who  were  only  the  victims  of  the 
disgrace  of  their  age.  Such  was  the  impenetrable 
confusion  of  ideas  at  the  close  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  and  the  guilty  believed  to  escape  their  guilt 
by  sophistically  confounding  cause  and  effect  of  the 
prevailing  conditions.  These  were  Trupp's  thoughts 
as  he  silently  marched  down  the  endless  street  in  the 
silent  procession.  The  throng  seemed  to  grow  greater 
and  greater  the  nearer  it  came  to  Trafalgar  Square. 
Trupp  and  the  workingman  with  whom  lie  had  been 
talking  were  still  marching  side  by  side.  But  they 
no  longer  talked.  Each  was  occupied  with  his  own 
thoughts.  The  words  of  the  former  had  been  heard, 
and  he  noticed  how  they  were  being  discussed. 

"Those  damned  Germans,"  exclaimed  a  young 
man,  "  are  to  blame  for  everything.  They  force  our 
wages  down."  And  he  looked  round  at  Trupp 
threateningly. 

The  latter  knew  at  once  what  the  other  meant. 

He  had  already  too  often  heard  of  the  "bloody 
Germans,"  not  to  understand  this  old  grievance 
which  came  in  such  fine  stead  for  the  exploiters  to 
divert  the  attention  of  workingmen  from  the  real 
causes  of  their  misery. 

His  strong  figure,  his  gloomy,  bearded  face,  his 
whole  attitude,  seemed,  however,  too  little  encourao-- 
ing  for  the  young  man  to  strike  up  a  quarrel  with 


The   Unemployed.  65 

him;  and  Trupp  left  him  and  the  others  in  their 
belief  in  the  baseness  of  the  German  workingmen 
who  "  come  to  England  only  to  steal  the  bread  from 
the  English." 

But  it  did  not  lessen  his  pain  and  his  bitterness 
when  he  recalled  who  it  really  was  that  came  from 
Germany  to  England.  He  knew  those  multitudes 
whom  not  only  the  hope  of  better  wages,  but  also  the 
hope  of  a  freer  and  truer  life,  compelled  to  leave 
their  country ;  for  how  was  it  possible  for  them  to 
live  under  the  constant  pressure  of  a  mad  law  —  the 
disgraceful  law,  as  popular  opinion  named  it  —  which 
presumed  to  murder  thought,  to  stifle  speech,  and  to 
keep  watch  over  every  movement  ?  .  .  . 

When  the  procession  reached  the  Square,  Trupp 
was  surprised  to  see  the  great  crowds  already  assem- 
bled there.  The  large,  broad  space  of  the  interior 
was  almost  filled  by  a  surging  mass,  and  in  all  the 
surrounding  streets  the  traffic  of  wagons  and  people 
seemed  to  be  as  great  as  on  week  days. 

The  approaching  procession  was  received  with 
stormy  shouts.  Trupp  left  it,  and  remained  standing 
near  Morley's  Hotel.  He  saw  the  files  of  men  enter- 
ing the  Square,  saw  the  man  who  was  carrying  the 
red  flag,  with  several  others  mounting  the  pedestal 
of  the  Nelson  Column,  and  a  hundred-headed  crowd 
gathering  round  the  next  moment,  attentively  listen- 
ing to  the  words  of  a  speaker. 

He  had  secured  a  standing-place  a  little  above  the 
crowd,  on  the  street  leading  to  St.  Martin's  Church. 
So  he  could  see  the  pedestal  of  the  column,  which 
was  densely  crowded.  He  saw  the  violent  gesticu- 
lations of  the  speakers,  the  waving  of  the  red  flag, 
and  the  black  helmets  of  the  police,  who  in  large 
numbers  had  taken  their  position  directly  below  the 
speakers. 

Sometimes  he  was  shut  off  from  the  view  by  a 
passing  cab  or  a  closely  packed  omnibus. 

Suddenly  he  saw  a  tremendous  commotion  arising 


66  The  Anarchists. 

in  the  crowd  that  occupied  the  Square;  a  cry  of 
terror  and  of  indignation  from  a  thousand  throats  at 
once  broke  into  the  air,  and  like  a  mighty,  dark  bil- 
low, the  crowd  surged  back,  far  overflowing  the 
steps  on  the  north  side  and  the  streets.  .  .  .  The 
police,  with  their  whole  force,  had  suddenly  and 
without  warning  made  an  attack  on  the  quietly 
listening  meeting,  and  were  now  recklessly  driving 
the  screaming  crowd  before  their  closed  ranks. 

Trupp  felt  a  frightful  rage  rising  within  him. 
This  cold  and  deliberate  brutality  made  his  blood 
boil.  He  crossed  the  street  and  stood  by  the  stone 
enclosure  of  the  place;  beneath  him  lay  the  Square 
already  half  emptied.  With  blows  and  kicks  the 
police  were  driving  the  defenceless  ones  before  them. 
Whoever  made  the  least  show  of  resistance  was 
pulled  down  and  led  away. 

A  young  man  had  escaped  from  their  hands.  In 
mad  haste  he  sought  to  gain  the  exit  of  the  place. 
But  those  stationed  there  pulled  him  instantly  down, 
while  the  scattered  crowd  outside  accompanied  this 
act  of  repulsive  brutality  with  exclamations  of  con- 
tempt and  rage. 

As  Trupp  saw  this,  he  jumped  with  one  leap  over 
the  wall  which  was  still  several  yards  high  at  this 
place  —  it  slopes  gradually  from  the  north  to  the 
south.  He  hurried  to  the  pedestal  of  the  column,  on 
which  several  of  the  speakers  were  still  standing. 

The  flag-bearer  had  placed  himself  against  the 
column  and  held  the  flag  with  both  hands.  He  was 
evidently  determined  to  yield  only  to  the  most 
extreme  force. 

Now .  the  police  again  slowly  drew  back  to  the 
column  and  again  took  up  their  position  there ;  and 
the  crowd  followed  them  from  all  sides  and  all  the 
entrances  of  the  Square.  In  a  few  minutes  the  entire 
area  was  again  covered  by  a  dark  sea  of  humanity, 
whose  indignation  had  increased,  whose  calls  for  the 
continuation  of  the  speech  had  grown  more  impatient, 
whose  excitement  had  become  more  intense. 


The   Unemployed.  67 

Again  the  pedestal  of  the  column  was  occupied: 
people  mutually  lifted  and  pulled  each  other  up. 
Before  the  flag  stood  a  young  man  of  about  thirty 
years.  He  was  one  of  the  best  speakers  and  very 
well  known  among  the  unemployed.  He  was  deathly 
pale  with  excitement,  and  looked  with  an  expression 
of  implacable  hatred  down  upon  the  forms  of  the  police- 
men at  his  feet. 

One  of  the  constables  shouted  up  to  the  speakers 
that  on  the  first  incendiary  word  he  should  arrest 
each  one  of  them  on  the  spot. 

With  an  indescribable  expression  of  contempt  the 
young  man  looked  down  upon  him. 

Trupp  was  standing  just  before  the  line  of  police- 
men, so  near  that  he  was  almost  forced  by  the  throng- 
ing multitude  to  touch  them.  But  notwithstanding 
this,  he  raised  his  arm  in  the  air,  and  called  loudly 
to  the  men  on  the  pedestal :  "  Go  on !  "  This  at  once 
became  the  sign  for  loud  applause  among  those  stand- 
ing round  and  for  countless  similar  exclamations. 

It  seemed  at  first  as  if  the  police  intended  to  make 
a  fresh  attack  in  consequence  of  this  outbreak  of  the 
feelings  of  the  multitude.  But  they  refrained,  and 
the  speaker  began.  He  spoke  on  the  right  of  free 
speech  in  England,  and  on  its  attempted  suppression, 
which  had  so  far  remained  unsuccessful.  He  saw 
before  him  a  throng  such  as  Trafalgar  Square  had  not 
held  that  year.  Here,  before  the  eyes  of  the  entire 
world,  they  had  placed  themselves  with  their  demand : 
"Bread  or  Labor."  And  here,  in  the  face  of  this 
prodigal  riches  and  wealth  which  they  themselves 
had  created,  they  would  continue  to  assemble  until 
their  demand  should  be  fulfilled.  They  had  not 
broken  a  window,  and  had  not  taken  a  piece  of  bread 
to  appease  their  hunger;  whoever  said  so  was  a  liar. 
"  It  would  have  been  very  agreeable  to  them  if  we  had 
done  it;  in  that  case  the  police  would  have  a  con- 
venient excuse  for  having  disturbed  our  peaceable 
meetings,  and  for  having  most  brutally  incited  us 
to  excess." 


68  The  Anarchists. 

Beside  Trupp  was  standing  the  reporter  of  a  news- 
paper, who  was  laboriously  jotting  down  cipher  notes. 
He  could  have  torn  the  paper  out  of  the  indifferent 
man's  hands.  Disgusted,  he  tried  to  force  his  way 
through  the  crowd  surrounding  him.  He  could  pro- 
ceed only  step  by  step.  The  assembly  no  longer 
consisted  exclusively  of  the  unemployed:  mixed  up 
with  them  was  the  riffraff  of  London  that  gathers 
on  all  occasions  in  incredibly  large  numbers,  many 
curious  ones  who  wished  to  see  what  would  happen, 
and  a  number  of  really  interested  persons.  Women 
with  their  children  on  their  arms,  tired  and  hungry, 
stood  close  by  the  tawdry  dress  dolls  of  the  West 
End,  of  whom  a  few  had  ventured  on  the  Square 
after  they  had  been  assured  that  it  was  "not  yet 
dangerous  " ;  and  in  the  throng  Trupp  saw  one  face 
that  made  him  indignant:  the  brazen,  scornfully 
smiling  face  of  a  gentleman  in  a  tall  hat  who  was 
standing  near  the  column,  and  who  now  interrupted 
the  words  of  the  speaker  with :  "  Nonsense !  "  Clearly 
a  prominent  official  who  —  relying  as  much  on  the 
patience  and  forbearance  of  the  people  as  on  the 
clubs  and  revolvers  of  the  police  — permitted  himself 
this  bit  of  insolence.  An  indignant  muttering  rose, 
while  he  looked  over  the  surrounding  crowd  with  his 
impudent  smile. 

"Just  wait,  fellow,"  Trupp  was  thinking  to  him- 
self; "some  day  you  won't  feel  like  smiling";  but 
almost  at  the  same  time  he  joined  in  the  laughter 
that  broke  forth  when  a  powerful  blow  from  behind 
drove  the  stove-pipe  hat  of  the  tall  gentleman  down 
over  his  eyes  and  ears.  The  crowd  scattered,  and  an 
empty  space  quickly  rose  round  the  chastised  offender, 
who  already  felt  no  longer  like  smiling.  The  police 
came  forward,  although  they  had  not  seen  anything 
of  the  incident.  Trupp  had  been  carried  away  with 
the  crowd;  he  was  now  standing  on  the  east  side  of 
the  Square. 

Meantime  the  other  three  sides  of  the  column  had 


The   Unemployed.  69 

also  become  covered  with  people,  and  the  meeting 
was  being  addressed  by  some  of  their  numbers. 
Some  things  that  were  said  had  no  bearing  on  the 
purpose  of  the  meeting,  and  the  voice  of  many  a 
speaker  was  more  expressive  of  his  self-complacency 
and  of  the  childish  pleasure  he  took  in  his  own  words 
than  of  the  indignation  over  the  conditions  which  he 
was  to  criticise,  arid  of  the  endeavor  to  arouse  this 
same  indignation  in  the  hearts  of  his  hearers  and  to 
fan  it  into  a  flame. 

With  an  angry  smile  Trupp  was  watching  one  of 
those  violently  gesticulating  professional  popular 
speakers,  who,  with  tiresome  verbosity,  was  telling 
the  starving  Londoners  of  their  starving  comrades  in 
India,  and  recounting  the  atrocities  committed  by 
the  English  government  in  that  unhappy  land,  in- 
stead of  revealing  to  them  the  equally  arbitrary  acts 
of  the  same  government  by  which  they  were  con- 
demned to  suffer  and  slowly  to  die. 

Loud  laughter  and  jeers,  however,  suddenly  caused 
him  to  transfer  his  attention  from  the  speaker  to  one 
of  those  pitiable  fanatics  who  believe  they  have  a 
mission  at  all  such  gatherings  to  lead  the  misguided 
people  back  into  the  lap  of  the  infallible  Church;  to 
sustain  the  poor  in  their  trials  and  troubles,  and  the 
rich  in  their  pleasures.  Trupp  looked  at  the  black- 
coated  man  curiously.  The  closely  shaved  sallow 
face,  the  cowardly  look  of  the  eyes,  and  the  honeyed 
tone  of  the  drawling  voice  would  have  been  repulsive 
to  him,  even  if  the  man  had  not  stood  in  the  service 
of  what  he  hated,  because  he  saw  in  it  the  chief 
agency  for  keeping  the  people  in  ignorance  and 
mental  slavery. 

But  the  words  of  the  missionary  were  received 
only  with  scorn  and  laughter.  From  all  sides  his 
voice  was  drowned  by  loud  cries.  Threats  were 
heard:  "  Go  away!  "  Then  orange  peel  and  nut  shells 
were  flying  at  him.  But  he  let  everything  pass  over 
him  and  drawled  out  his  carefully  committed  phrases, 


70  The  Anarchists. 

to  which  nobody  paid  heed,  as  calmly  and  monoto- 
nously as  if  the  whole  affair  did  not  concern  him  at 
all.  He  was  pushed  from  the  spot  where  he  was 
standing.  Hardly  had  he  gained  a  foothold  again 
when  he  continued  with  his  speech.  The  conduct 
of  this  new  Christ  was  at  once  ridiculous  and  piti- 
able. Suddenly  an  admirably  well-aimed  egg  was 
hurled  at  the  speaker  —  a  rotten,  pasty  mass  closed 
his  mouth  with  a  clapping  sound.  That  was  too 
much  for  even  this  martyr.  He  no  longer  held  his 
ground.  Soiled  from  top  to  toe,  spitting  and  rapidly 
ducking  his  head,  he  slipped  through  the  crowd 
standing  round,  followed  by  the  coarse  laughter  of 
the  excited  and  screaming  people. 

Trupp  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  wished  the 
mouth  of  every  corrupter  of  the  people  and  falsifier 
of  truth  might  be  closed  in  an  equally  drastic 
manner. 

He  turned  away  and  allowed  the  swarm  to  carry 
him  past  the  fountains,  whose  dirty  water-basins 
were  strewn  with  refuse  of  every  kind,  back  again 
to  the  north  side.  There  also,  holding  themselves 
by  the  lantern  posts  of  the  broad  railing,  a  number 
of  speakers  were  shouting  their  excited,  jumbled, 
and  exciting  phrases  down  to  the  crowd  far  beneath 
them  in  the  Square. 

One  of  them  seemed  familiar  to  Trupp.  He 
remembered  having  seen  him  in  the  meetings  of  the 
Social  Democratic  Federation.  He  was  a  party 
Socialist.  Trupp  listened.  Again  he  did  not  under- 
stand everything,  but  from  disjointed  catchwords  he 
could  infer  that  he  was  speaking  of  the  rapid  devel- 
opment of  capitalistic  exploitation,  of  the  ever  more 
threatening  bread  riots  incident  to  it,  of  the  useless- 
ness  of  the  means  employed  for  their  suppression, 
and  that  he  was  attacking  that  old  superstition 
which,  first  put  forth  by  a  prejudiced  mind,  has  since 
taken  such  deep  root, — that  it  is  the  insufficiency 
of  the  means  of  subsistence  which  necessitates  the 


The   Unemployed.  71 

misery  of  certain  classes.  Then  lie  passed  to  the 
familiar  theories  —  holding  the  balance  between 
Social  Democratic  and  Communistic  ideas  —  of  the 
distribution  of  goods  of  which  there  is  a  superabun- 
dance: all  in  sentences  whose  separate  words,  by 
the  repetitions  of  many  years,  seemed  as  if  cast  in 
brass  and  to  have  turned  into  mere  phrases. 

The  effect,  however,  was  small.  There  were  but 
few  who  followed  every  word  or  who  were  even  able 
to  follow.  The  majority  allowed  themselves  to  be 
driven  from  one  place  to  another  by  the  incessant 
commotion  which  swayed  them  to  and  fro  as  the 
wind  sways  the  grass  of  the  field.  The  voices  of 
the  speakers  tried  in  vain,  for  the  most  part,  to 
struggle  against  the  roar. 

Around  the  benches  on  the  north  side  of  the  Square 
a  boisterous  lot  of  children  had  gathered:  street 
Arabs  who  at  every  hour  of  the  day  flood  the  princi- 
pal streets  of  London  by  hundreds  —  cast  out  by 
their  parents,  if  they  still  have  any,  and  pushed  on 
by  the  dreaded  fist  of  the  policeman.  Children  who 
never  have  a  youth;  who  in  their  life  have  never 
seen  anything  of  nature  except  the  dust  of  Hyde 
Park,  where  on  a  summer's  evening  they  bathed  in 
the  Serpentine  with  hundreds  of  their  comrades ;  who 
have  never  in  their  life  eaten  their  fill,  and  who 
never  have  anything  but  dirty  rags  on  their  bodies ; 
who  have  never  been  spoiled,  as  they  have  never  been 
unspoiled. 

Laughing  and  screaming,  they  were  standing  and 
jumping  about  the  dirty  and  battered  benches.  One 
little  fellow  held  himself  for  a  minute  on  the  back 
of  one  of  them :  with  comical  gravity  he  imitated  the 
movements  of  the  speaker,  and  screamed  senseless 
words  to  the  throng.  His  dirty,  prematurely  old 
face  was  radiant  with  pleasure.  Then  he  was  pulled 
down  by  his  exulting  comrades. 

Trupp  smiled  again,  but  bitterly.  This  little 
scene  seemed  like  the  most  cutting  satire  on  the 


72  The  Anarchists. 

most  serious  business.  He  looked  at  the  dirty, 
vicious  faces  of  those  standing  round  him;  where- 
ever  he  looked:  misery,  hunger,  and  depravity. 
And  they  were  his  brothers.  He  felt  as  if  he  be- 
longed to  them  all ;  inseparably  bound  together  with 
them  by  a  common  fate. 

Above  Trafalgar  Square  lay  a  monotonous  gray, 
heavy,  sunless  sky.  This  cold  dome  seemed  farther 
away  than  usual. 

Again  a  great  commmotion  surged  through  the 
masses  from  the  foot  of  the  Nelson  Column.  Evi- 
dently it  was  being  deserted.  Over  the  dark  sea  of 
heads  the  red  flag  could  be  seen  turning  in  the 
direction  of  Westminster.  And  without  a  word 
having  been  said,  thousands  followed  it  of  their  own 
accord.  The  separate  individuals  formed  and  con- 
densed themselves  into  one  immense  serpent.  So  it 
moved  down  Whitehall,  past  the  seats  of  so  many 
magistrates,  past  the  historical  memorials  whose 
bloody  traces  had  been  washed  away  by  time  from 
the  stones  of  this  famous  street,  past  the  two  senti- 
nels of  the  Horse  Guards,  who  in  their  ostentatious 
uniforms  and  on  their  well-fed  horses  were  keeping 
watch  over  the  entrances  of  that  low  structure ;  and 
up  through  the  crowds  of  spectators  on  both  sides, 
who  followed  the  strange  procession  as  soon  as  it 
had  gone  by.  .  .  . 

In  the  midst  of  the  ranks  walked  Trupp.  His 
pulses  beat  somewhat  faster  as  he  felt  himself  drawn 
away  and  down  by  the  currents  of  this  day. 

The  towers  of  Parliament  House  rose  ever  more 
distinctly  and  impressively  out  of  the  fine  mist. 
Then  suddenly  Westminster  Abbey  lay  before  the 
countless  multitude  that  was  irresistibly  pouring 
itself  upon  its  doors.  Trupp  made  an  attempt  to  get 
a  view  of  the  head  of  the  procession  beyond  the  black 
hats  that  surrounded  him.  If  it  would  only  come  to 
a  crisis! — was  his  glowing  wish. 

But  quietly  he  saw  the  red  flag  turn  away  from  the 


The   Unemployed.  73 

main  entrance  and  pass  around  the  corner:  the  pro- 
cession followed  it  in  closed  rank  and  file. 

All  kinds  of  exclamations  were  heard  about  him. 
He  did  not  know  what  it  all  meant.  And  suddenly 
he  found  himself  —  the  procession  had  to  gain  admis- 
sion through  the  eastern  entrance  —  in  the  great 
silence  of  those  vast  walls  which  were  filled  with  the 
dust  of  ages  and  consecrated  with  the  glory  of  cen- 
turies. .  .  . 

He  stood  in  the  Poets'  Corner  of  Westminster 
Abbey,  jammed  in  the  throng  that  found  no  room  in 
the  narrow  pews.  He  saw  the  busts  and  read  the 
names  which  he  did  not  know.  What  were  they? 
And  what  were  they  to  him?  He  knew  only  one 
English  poet,  and  his  name  he  did  not  find, —  Percy 
Byssche  Shelley.  He  had  loved  liberty.  There- 
fore he  loved  him  and  read  him,  even  where  he  did 
not  understand  him.  He  did  not  know  that  Eng- 
lish narrow-mindedness  and  illiberality  had  distin- 
guished him,  like  Byron,  by  obstinately  denying  him 
the  honor  of  a  place  in  this  half-lighted  corner 
among  so  much  genuine  genius  and  so  much  false 
greatness. 

Divine  service  was  being  held.  From  the  middle 
of  the  space,  as  from  a  great  distance,  came  the 
gloomy,  monotonous,  half-singing  voice  of  a  clergy- 
man, who  continued  his  sermon  after  an  impercepti- 
ble interruption  in  consequence  of  the  unexpected 
intrusion,  thus  again  quieting  the  congregation,  his 
frightened  audience.  .  .  .  Trupp  did  not  under- 
stand a  word.  The  crowd  around  him  exhaled  a 
pungent  odor  of  sweat  and  dust.  They  became  more 
excited  after  the  great  feeling  which  had  over- 
powered them  on  their  entrance  had  again  disap- 
peared. Some  had  kept  their  hats  on ;  a  few  others, 
who  had  removed  theirs,  now  put  them  on  again. 
Some  climbed  on  the  pews  and  looked  over  the  rest. 
Only  a  few  low  words  fell  upon  the  grand  sublimity 
of  this  silence.  Trupp  sat  down.  In  spite  of  himself 


74  The  Anarchists. 

he  was  seized  by  a  strange,  inexplicable  feeling,  such 
as  he  had  not  experienced  in  a  long  —  in  an  indefinitely 
long  —  time.  .  .  .  The  more  we  are  hedged  in  by 
space,  the  more  we  suffer  when  the  wings  of  our 
thoughts  beat  against  its  walls  until  they  bleed;  the 
farther  it  circles  around  us,  the  more  we  forget  it 
and  all  its  limits.  Trupp  looked  down,  and  for  half 
an  hour  forgot  entirely  where  he  was. 

His  whole  life  rose  before  him  again.  But  the 
embrace  of  this  memory  was  not  gentle  and  consol- 
ing as  that  of  a  mother  to  whom  her  son  returns,  but 
violent,  relentless,  crushing,  as  must  be  the  fatal 
kiss  of  a  vampire ! 

His  whole  life !  He  was  now  a  man  of  thirty-five, 
in  the  zenith  of  his  life,  in  the  full  possession  of  his 
strength. 

He  sees  his  childhood  again, — the  starved,  joyless 
years  of  his  childhood,  as  the  son  of  a  day-laborer  in 
a  dirty  village  on  the  flats  of  Saxony ;  the  father  a 
numbskull;  the  mother  a  quarrelsome  woman,  for- 
ever dissatisfied,  from  whom  he  inherited  his  iron 
energy  and  uncontrollable  passion;  with  whom  he 
was  in  continual  conflict,  until  one  day,  after  a 
frightful  scene  in  which  his  ripening  sense  of  justice 
had  rebelled  against  her  groundless  accusations  and 
complaints,  he  ran  away  from  her  —  the  father  never 
being  considered.  .  .  . 

He  sees  himself  again  as  a  fifteen-year-old,  neg- 
lected boy,  without  a  penny,  wandering  from  place 
to  place  for  two  days ;  he  feels  the  ravenous  hunger 
again  which  finally,  after  two  days,  gave  him  the 
courage  to  beg  a  piece  of  bread  in  a  farmhouse ;  and 
again  the  dejected  despair  which  finally  drove  him 
—  it  was  on  the  morning  of  the  third  day,  a  wet, 
cold,  autumn  morning  (how  well  he  remembered  that 
morning!),  when  he  rose  shivering  with  cold  and 
wholly  exhausted  from  the  ground  —  to  ask  for  work 
in  the  next  village.  It  was  in  the  vicinity  of 


The   Unemployed.  75 

Chemnitz.  He  enters  a  blacksmith  shop.  The  boss 
laughs  and  examines  the  muscles  of  his  arm.  He 
can  stay,  he  may  sit  down  to  breakfast,  a  thick, 
tasteless  soup,  which  the  journeymen  ate  sullenly, 
but  which  he  devours  greedily.  The  others  make 
fun  of  his  hunger ;  but  never  had  ridicule  disturbed 
him  less.  Then,  with  mad  zeal,  with  burning  pleas- 
ure and  love  for  all  things,  he  works  and  studies. 

Days,  weeks,  months,  pass  on.  .  .  .  Nobody  con- 
cerns himself  about  him.  The  hours  of  the  evening 
after  his  day's  work  seem  longest  to  him.  He  does 
not  know  what  to  do.  Once  he  gets  hold  of  a  book 
and  then  spells  out  sentence  after  sentence.  It 
happens  to  be  "The  Workingmen's  Programme,"  by 
Lassalle.  He  has  found  it  in  a  corner  of  his  garret. 
Somebody  must  have  forgotten  it  there.  He  does 
not  understand  a  word  of  it.  But  one  day  the  boss 
sees  him  bent  over  the  soiled  leaves,  and  tears  them 
out  of  his  hands  and  boxes  his  ears.  "Damned 
Social  Democrats!  "  he  cries;  "do  they  want  to  ruin 
even  the  child!"  The  boy  does  not  understand 
this,  either.  He  cannot  imagine  what  bad  thing  it 
is  that  he  has  done.  But  he  has  heard  the  word 
"Social  Democracy"  for  the  first  time.  That  is 
twenty  years  ago.  .  .  . 

So  he  forms  his  first  friendship.  For  from  this 
hour  one  of  the  workmen,  an  orthodox  follower  of 
the  prosperous  General  German  Workingmen's  Soci- 
ety, which  at  that  time  was  still -in  irreconcilable 
opposition  to  the  Eisenachian  movement  of  the 
Workingmen's  Party,  took  an  interest  in  him, 
and  instead  of  the  heavy,  scientific  treatise  of  that 
gifted  champion  of  German  Socialism  he  slipped  into 
his  hands  a  sheet  printed  on  thin,  oily  paper,  which 
illustrated  the  social  evils  of  the  time  by  the  light  of 
daily  events  more  successfully  to  the  awakening 
spirit  than  even  the  most  simple  treatise  on  politi- 
cal economy  could  have  done.  There  he  read  the 
descriptions,  collected  from  all  sources,  of  hostile 


76  The  Anarchists. 

antagonisms:  the  hate-filled  accounts  of  insolent 
revelry,  of  brutal  heartlessness,  of  shameful  arro- 
gance on  the  one  side,  the  passionate  portrayals  of 
despairing  poverty,  of  deceived  labor,  and  of  down- 
trodden weakness  on  the  other,  the  radically  opposite 
side;  and  his  young  heart  bubbled  over  with  pain 
and  indignation.  Hate  and  love  divided  it  forever: 
hate  of  the  former,  and  love  for  those  who  were  suf- 
fering like  him.  Mankind  soon  resolved  itself  into 
bourgeoisie  and  workingmen,  and  soon  he  saw  in  the 
former  nothing  but  calculating  rogues  and  lazy 
exploiters ;  in  the  latter,  only  victims,  the  nobler  the 
more  unfortunate  they  were.  .  .  . 

Years  pass  by.  When  at  the  age  of  nineteen  he 
leaves  the  gloomy,  cheerless  city,  he  has  advanced  far 
enough  by  dint  of  hard  work  in  the  evening  hours  to 
read  fluently  and  to  write  correctly,  if  not  easily. 
He  is  a  journeyman.  His  certificate  is  excellent. 

Every  fibre  of  his  being  urges  him  to  travel.  The 
great  war  has  spent  its  rage.  While  in  Paris,  the 
fires  and  flames  of  insurrection  paint  the  heavens  as 
with  a  lurid  glare  until  they  are  extinguished  in 
streams  of  blood,  he,  cutting  his  way  through  the 
Thuringian  forest,  wanders  towards  Nurnberg  and 
Munich,  where  for  a  year  he  finds  a  favorable  oppor- 
tunity in  a  large  factory  for  perfecting  himself  in  his 
calling. 

As  yet  an  enthusiastic  follower  of  the  "most 
advanced  "  party,  an  instinctive  feeling  of  revolt  is 
nevertheless  already  beginning  to  rise  within  him 
against  its  authoritative  principles,  which  do  not 
permit  of  even  the  least  deviation  from  the  sanctioned 
form.  .  .  . 

He  is  urged  abroad,  to  foreign  lands.  He  turns 
to  Switzerland.  After  many  delays  he  reaches 
Zurich,  then  Geneva.  And  there  for  the  first  time 
he  hears  the  word  "Anarchism."  He  had  never 
heard  it  in  Germany. 

Nowhere  as  yet  is  it  spoken   aloud.     Only   here 


The   Unemployed.  77 

and  there  it  is  heard  in  a  whisper.  No  one  yet 
probably  knows  what  it  means.  No  one  yet  dares 
attempt  to  explain  it.  No  one  yet  dreams  of  its  sig- 
nificance for  the  future.  .  .  . 

At  the  age  of  twenty-two  he  is  a  revolutionist! 

Hitherto  he  had  been  a  reformer. 

For  the  first  time  he  came  in  contact  with  people 
of  all  nationalities,  whom  a  strong  fate  had  brought 
together  there:  emigrants,  conspirators,  sappers  and 
miners,  —  the  men  and  the  women  of  the  European 
revolution,  some  still  bleeding  from  fresh  wounds, 
others  already  covered  with  scars :  all  filled  by  that 
feverish  impatience,  that  trembling  passion,  that 
painful  longing  "  to  do  something,"  but  here  growing 
more  and  more  away  from  their  former  life. 

They  talk  to  him :  the  young  of  their  hopes,  the 
old  of  their  disappointments  and  —  their  hopes. 
Occasionally  one  of  them  disappears :  he  has  a  "  mis- 
sion" to  fulfil.  Another  one  comes.  Their  names 
are  scarcely  mentioned,  never  remembered. 

These  are  strange  times  for  Trupp. 

In  1864  Marx  had  founded  the  "International,"  in 
London.  Its  great  successes  went  hand  in  hand  with 
ever-increasing  dissensions  among  the  members  who 
defended  private  property  here  and  denied  it  there; 
who  championed  Collectivism  here  and  were  already 
beginning  to  lose  themselves  more  and  more  in  the 
misty  regions  of  Communism  there.  Their  differences 
came  to  light  at  their  congresses. 

Then  an  iron  hand  is  thrust  into  the  breach  and 
makes  it  deeper  and  wider.  Bakounine,  the  Russian 
officer,  the  disciple  of  Hegel,  the  leader  of  the 
Dresden  insurrection,  for  three  days  "King  of  Sax- 
ony," the  Siberian  exile,  the  tireless  conspirator,  the 
eternal  revolutionist,  the  prophet  and  the  dreamer, 
enters  the  lists  against  the  iron  tyrant,  the  gifted 
savant,  the  celebrated  author  of  the  Bible  of  Com- 
munism. The  struggle  of  two  lions  mutually  de- 
vouring each  other! 


78  The  Anarchists. 

In  1868  rises  the  "Alliance  of  Socialistic  Democ- 
racy " ;  and  hardly  a  year  before  Trupp  had  come  to 
Switzerland,  the  Jurassian  Confederation,  the  "  cradle 
of  Anarchy."  Almost  three  years  he  remains  in 
Switzerland;  he  learns  French. 

As  he  comes  to  Berne  once  more  before  leaving  the 
country  for  years,  the  curtain  is  there  slowly  falling 
over  the  last  act  of  that  prodigious  life.  .  .  .  Death 
had  already  opened  its  gates  for  Michael  Bakounine. 
Although  he  has  already  been  deserted  by  almost  all, 
the  dying  giant  is  still  making  convulsive  efforts  of 
despair  to  gather  new  hosts  round  him  and  send  them 
forth  in  the  hopeless  conflict.  ...  It  is  past.  Only 
fools  still  swear  by  a  flag  which  the  storm  of  decades 
has  torn  into  shreds.  .  .  .  Never  did  he  who  had 
held  it  aloft  achieve  what  he  wished:  to  overthrow 
the  world.  But  he  did  succeed  in  hurling  the  torch 
of  dissension  into  the  stronghold  of  the  "Interna- 
tional." .  .  . 

Otto  Trupp  is  one  of  his  last  disciples. 

At  the  age  of  twenty-four  he  is  a  terrorist.  He 
has  learned  them  by  heart,  those  mad  eleven  principles 
"  concerning  the  duties  of  the  revolutionist  to  him- 
self and  to  his  fellow-revolutionists,"  which  begin 
with  the  frightful  words  of  the  greatest  illiberality : 
"  The  revolutionist  is  a  self-immolated  person.  He 
has  no  common  interests,  feelings,  or  inclinations, 
no  property,  not  even  a  name.  Everything  in  him  is 
devoured  by  a  single,  exclusive  interest,  a  single 
thought,  a  single  passion,  — the  revolution." 

Filled  by  this  single  interest,  this  single  thought, 
this  single  passion,  the  twenty-three-year-old  Trupp 
returned  to  his  native  country.  Wandering  through 
it  from  south  to  north,  his  bitterness  increased  with 
the  greatness  of  the  misery  which  he  saw  wherever 
he  went. 

It  was  the  year  in  which  the  two  schools  of  Social- 
ism joined  their  forces  on  that  soil  which  was 
destined  to  bear  one  of  the  best  organized,  most 


The   Unemployed.  79 

active,  and  most  compact  parties :  the  one  that  will 
perhaps  claim  the  immediate  future.  .  .  . 

He  journeys  from  city  to  city.  Everywhere  he 
tries  to  undermine  the  existing  order  of  things.  He 
invites  the  workingmen  to  leave  the  snail-paced 
course  of  reform;  he  points  out  to  them  the  way  of 
force  as  their  saviour  and  liberator.  And  many  a  one 
who  is  incapable  of  curbing  the  impatient  desires  of  his 
passionate  heart  with  the  reins  of  reason,  follows  him. 

Now  he  calls  himself  an  Anarchist! 

Henceforth  he  battles  under  this  sign.  The  word 
seems  to  him  to  indicate  with  sufficient  clearness 
what  he  aspires  after :  he  wants  no  authori  ty,  neither 
that  of  an  individual,  nor  of  a  majority.  While  he 
ventures  upon  all  possible  sciences  with  an  iron 
will,  he  erects  for  himself  the  shapeless  structure  of  a 
general  philosophy  in  whose  dark  chambers  he  would 
have  gone  astray  had  he  not  seen  through  the  ill- 
formed  roof,  shimmering  with  promise,  the  blue  sky 
of  an  ideal  of  brotherly  love.  .  .  . 

He  trusts  only  in  the  revolution  henceforth.  With 
one  blow  it  will  create  the  paradise  of  peaceable 
social  life.  Therefore  every  impulse  of  his  longing 
is  directed  to  it.  For  it  he  gathers  recruits :  for  the 
great  revolution  of  his  class  which  will  be  the  last. 

So  he  journeys  from  city  to  city :  under  how  many^as- 
sumed  names,  with  passports  exchanged  how  often,  he 
no  longer  knows.  .  .  .  He  is  forever  a  refugee :  not 
a  day  passes  on  which  he  must  not  keep  his  eyes  open, 
his  lips  closed,  to  escape  pursuit.  Often  the  prison 
claims  him.  But  it  always  releases  him  again  after 
short  intervals :  nothing  can  be  proved  against  him. 

Then  in  quick  succession  follow  the  shots  at  the 
Emperor  in  Berlin.  He  applauds  the  regicides,  both 
of  whom  were  fanatics ;  the  one,  moreover,  an  idiot, 
the  other  a  lunatic.  The  reaction  triumphs.  Its 
terrible  period  of  degradation  begins :  the  lowest 
feelings  venture  abroad.  The  spirit  of  persecution, 
the  lust  of  denunciation,  hatred,  fill  all  hearts. 


80  The  Anarchists. 

When  Trupp  —  one  of  the  first  —  is  arrested,  he 
despairs  of  being  ever  again  released  from  prison. 
The  threads  are  being  drawn  together  above  him.  A 
miraculous  accident  saves  him.  While  still  in 
search  of  the  arch-traitor  and  conspirator,  they  sen- 
tenced him  for  insulting  his  Majesty,  to  half  a  year, 
not  dreaming  who  it  was  whom  they  held  in  their 
hands.  Every  day  during  this  half-year  he  saw  the 
sword  drawn  over  him,  ready  to  descend.  .  .  .  But 
it  does  not  descend.  He  is  again  free.  Amidst 
great  privations  he  reaches  the  boundary,  reaches 
Paris.  The  other  period  of  his  life  begins :  that  of 
the  refugee  abroad.  He  knows  he  cannot  venture  a 
step  into  Germany  that  would  not  prove  fatal.  .  .  . 

The  secret  plotter  and  agitator  who  silently  scat- 
ters his  fermenting  seed  in  every  direction  becomes 
the  public  propagandist,  the  debater  in  the  clubs,  the 
speaker  on  the  street-corners,  and  in  the  meeting- 
halls. 

The  French  Anarchists  have  founded  the  first 
Anarchistic  Communistic  organ :  "  Le  ReVolte* !  " 
The  followers  of  the  new  creed,  which  is  slowly  but 
surely  spreading,  take  the  initiative  in  the  Anar- 
chistic organization  of  "free  groups,"  for  the  first 
time  building  on  the  principle  of  decentralization. 
The  workingmen's  congress  of  Marseilles,  1879,  is 
communistic;  its  significance  is  not  yet  to  be  esti- 
mated; the  split  between  Communism  and  Collec- 
tivism —  externally  hardly  noticeable  —  is  internally 
already  completed. 

Trupp  is  everywhere.  His  thirsting  heart  never 
beat  more  restlessly  than  in  these  years  of  the  great, 
awakening  movement  which  carries  everything  before 
it.  What  he  hears  among  the  Frenchmen,  he  repeats 
to  the  small  but  already  expanding  circle  of  his 
German  comrades. 

Then  he  makes  the  acquaintance  of  Carrard  Auban. 
He  sees  that  pure,  almost  childlike  enthusiasm  on 
the  brow  of  the  young  man  of  twenty-five,  that  reck- 


The   Unemployed.  81 

less  courage  which  delights  him,  and  that  self-deny- 
ing  devotion  which  seems  to  grow  from  day  to  day. 
But  hardly  has  he  made  his  acquaintance  and  won 
his  friendship,  when  he  loses  him  again  for  a  long 
time:  Auban  is  convicted.  The  ringing  words  of 
his  great  speech  before  the  judges  accompany  Trupp 
through  the  two  years  during  which  they  are  sepa- 
rated. .  .  . 

When  in  1884  they  meet  again  in  London,  — both 
refugees,  —  Auban  has  become  another ;  Trupp  re- 
mained the  same.  Only  the  memory  of  the  great, 
glorious  days  of  revolt  still  unites  them. 

Auban  understands  him  now  for  the  first  time; 
but  he  can  no  longer  understand  Auban. 

In  Germany  the  creed  has  become  deed.  Sud- 
denly there  appeared  upon  the  frightened  world  the 
face  of  horror:  Vienna,  Strassburg,  Stuttgart,  the 
Niederwald,  and  the  assassination  of  Rumpff  —  all 
these  deeds  have  happened  which  have  been  infinitely 
harmful  to  the  spread  of  the  idea  of  liberty,  which 
have  placed  many  a  new  murderous  weapon  in  the 
hands  of  the  enemy,  so  that  from  now  on  —  for  an 
indefinite  time  —  the  word  "  Anarchist "  has  become 
synonymous  with  "murderer."  Will  it  ever  be 
cleared  there  ?  Is  it  not  lost  for  Europe :  abandoned 
to  eternal  misunderstanding,  to  insatiable  persecu- 
tion, to  newly  aroused  hatred  ? 

Trupp  is  in  London  —  in  the  exhausting  and 
petty  quarrels  of  the  day  his  energies  have  been 
wasted  until  now  — 

Suddenly  Trupp  awoke.  He  again  came  to  him- 
self. He  fixed  his  hat.  He  looked  round  and  up  to 
the  dizzy  vaulted  ceiling. 

The  drawling  words  of  the  clergyman  were  still 
dying  away  in  plaintive  tones  scarcely  audible  in 
that  immense  space.  In  fine  and  rich  tones  rose  the 
boy  voices  in  response.  Then  once  more  the  walls 
—  tremblingly  blending  the  reverberating  waves  of 


82  The  Anarchists. 

sound  into  a  deep  beauty  —  threw  down  the  tones  on 
the  silent  people  below.  .  .  . 

Trupp  found  himself  again  wedged  in  the  multi- 
tude whose  clothes  were  ever  more  strongly  emitting 
a  vaporous  odor  which  mingled  with  the  mouldy  dust 
to  form  an  oppressive  sultriness. 

Now  they  had  all  become  silent,  the  unemployed. 
Some  were  tired,  others  stupefied;  almost  all  taken 
captive  by  the  strangeness  of  the  situation.  Most 
of  them  had  probably  not  been  inside  a  church  since 
their  boyhood.  Now  in  spite  of  themselves  they 
were  being  held  captive  by  memories  which  they  had 
buried  long  ago. 

Many  were  leaning  against  the  backs  of  the  pews, 
closely  pressed  together,  in  a  restless  half-slumber ; 
others,  in  a  suppressed  voice,  hardly  breathing,  were 
whispering  questions  to  each  other:  they  wanted  to 
know  who  were  those  marble  figures  in  the  garb  of 
past  ages,  the  wonderful  head-dress,  with  the  serious 
expressions,  in  the  challenging  attitudes.  .  .  .  Were 
they  those  who  had  the  power  to  make  them  happy, 
to  destroy  them? 

The  daring  spirit  of  revolt  with  which  not  an  hour 
ago  they  had  started  from  Trafalgar  Square  had  van- 
ished. Wedged  together,  they  were  standing  here 
—  how  much  longer  were  they  to  remain  standing 
so?  Why  did  they  not  go  away?  What  were  they 
doing  here?  Here  no  help  was  to  come  to  them. 
Here  was  no  other  consolation  than  words.  But 
they  wanted  work,  work  and  bread. 

Bitterness  spread  among  the  lingering  ones.  In 
Trupp  it  blazed  forth  like  fire.  From  the  chancel 
came,  monotonous  and  uniformly  slow  like  trickling 
drops,  the  words  of  the  clergyman.  He  did  not 
understand  them.  Perhaps  no  one  understood  them. 
They  told  of  things  that  are  not  of  this  world.  .  .  . 

"Put  all  your  trust  in  God!"  said  the  plaintive 
voice. 

"In  God!  "  came  back  softly,  in  wonderful  strains 
of  hope  and  rejoicing,  the  youthful  voices. 


The   Unemployed.  83 

"  He  alone  can  save  you !  "  the  clergyman  again. 

Was  there  a  suspicion  in  the  minds  of  the  starving 
ones  of  the  unconscious  mockery  of  this  terrible  faith 
which  was  a  lie  from  beginning  to  end?  A  move- 
ment of  unrest  rose  among  them.  All  had  become 
awake ;  all  shook  off  the  slumber  of  stupefaction. 

Then  a  shrill  laugh  sounded  from  Trupp's  lips,  in 
which  infidelity,  hatred,  and  bitterness  mingled. 
Cries  answered  him  from  different  sides.  Some  also 
laughed.  Then  fitful  laughter,  here  and  there.  Con- 
fused cries. 

The  reluctantly  and  mechanically  uncovered  heads 
were  again  covered.  There  was  pushing  and  jostling. 

The  majority  were  crowding  towards  the  door. 
Quickly  the  throng  poured  into  the  open  air.  The 
worshippers  gave  a  sigh  of  relief.  The  Lord  God, 
without  whose  will  not  a  hair  falls  to  the  ground, 
had  turned  the  danger  away  from  his  children.  They 
were  freed  from  the  impious.  They  were  again  by 
themselves.  The  clergyman,  who  had  stopped  for  a 
moment  at  the  outbrealk  of  the  noise,  went  on,  and 
those  remaining  again  turned  their  eyes,  full  of  con- 
fidence and  serene  calm,  towards  him,  their  shepherd. 

Trupp  was  exasperated.  He  would  have  liked 
nothing  better  than  a  scandal  in  this  place. 

The  dull  light  of  the  damp,  cold  October  afternoon 
again  enveloped  the  throng  emerging  from  the  twi- 
light of  Westminster  Abbey,  from  its  "  sacred  silence  " 
into  the  noise  of  the  day.  The  greater  part  of  the 
unemployed  had  been  obliged  to  wait  out-doors. 
They  had  sullenly  and  doubtingly  followed  the  paci- 
fying words  of  a  high  dignitary  of  the  Church,  or 
listened  with  applause  to  the  bitter  truths  of  the  dis- 
loyal Christian  Socialist. 

They  again  formed  into  a  procession  headed  for  the 
Square  which  they  had  left  hardly  an  hour  ago.  They 
followed  the  waving  of  the  red  flag.  They  crowded 
together  in  closed  ranks  as  if  so  to  feel  their  hunger 
less,  their  power  more. 


84  TJie  Anarchists. 

Trupp  was  pushed  on. 

In  regular  steps  their  heavy  feet  struck  the  hard 
ground.  They  supported  each  other.  An  immense 
procession  was  filing  through  the  narrow  Parliament 
Street.  .  .  . 

And  out  of  this  procession  rose  as  by  premedita- 
tion a  song.  Low,  sombre,  sad,  and  defiant,  it  burst 
from  a  thousand  throats  to  the  sky  like  the  cloud  of 
smoke  which  presages  the  outbreak  of  the  conflagra- 
tion. .  .  . 

They  sang  the  old  immortal  song  of  "  The  Starving 
Poor  of  Old  England  ":  — 

Let  them  bray,  until  in  the  face  they  are  black, 

That  over  oceans  they  hold  their  sway, 
Of  the  flag  of  Old  England,  the  Union  Jack, 

About  which  I  have  something  to  say : 
'Tis  said  that  it  floats  o'er  the  free,  but  it  waves 
Over  thousands  of  hard-worked,  ill-paid  British  slaves, 
Who  are  driven  to  pauper  and  suicide  graves  — 
The  starving  poor  of  Old  England  ! 

And  in  a  mighty  chorus  the  refrain  in  which  every 
voice  joined:  — 

'Tis  the  poor,  the  poor,  the  taxes  have  to  pay, 
The  poor  who  are  starving  every  day, 
Who  starve  and  die  on  the  Queen's  highway  — 
The  starving  poor  of  Old  England  ! 

Another  stanza  and  still  another:  — 

'Tis  dear  to  the  rich,  but  too  dear  for  the  poor, 
When  hunger  stalks  in  at  every  door  — 

And  closing  with  a  terrible,  daring  menace,  exult- 
ing in  hope: — 

But  not  much  longer  these  evils  we'll  endure, 
We,  the  workingmen  of  Old  England  1 

Trupp  tore  himself  away  from  the  ranks  and  turned 
into  a  side  street. 


The   Unemployed.  85 

Behind  him  Westminster  Abbey  sank  away  in  the 
ever-deepening  shadows.  The  sombre,  sorrowful 
tones  in  which  the  hungry  and  starving  expressed 
their  sufferings  grew  fainter  and  fainter  in  his 
ear.  .  .  . 

'Tis  the  poor,  the  poor,  the  taxes  have  to  pay, 
The  poor  who  are  starving  every  day, 
Who  starve  and  die  on  the  Queen's  highway  — 
The  starving  poor  of  Old  England  ! 

No  judge,  either  in  heaven  or  on  earth,  heard  the 
terrible  arraignment  of  these  wretched  ones  who  were 
still  waiting  for  justice. 

With  bent  head,  his  lips  firmly  pressed  together, 
occasionally  casting  a  sharp  glance  round  to  assure 
himself  of  his  way,  Trupp  walked  on,  probably  for 
an  hour,  towards  the  north  o£  London. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

CARRARD   ATJBAN. 

DURING  that  same  afternoon  on  which  so  much 
seething  blood  flowed  back  to  the  heart  of  the 
metropolis,  Carrard  Auban  was  sitting  in  his  quiet, 
lofty  room  on  one  of  the  streets  north  of  King's  Cross, 
which  are  never  very  lively  on  week  days,  but  seem 
as  if  haunted  by  death  on  holidays. 

He  had  been  living  here  since  he  was  again  alone. 
For  more  than  a  year  already. 

It  was  one  of  those  bare,  plainly  furnished  rooms, 
without  modern  improvements,  for  which  one  pays 
ten  shillings  a  week,  but  in  whose  quiet  seclusion 
one  can  live  without  being  disturbed  by  the  noise  of 
the  life  outside.  Room  after  room  of  the  entire  three- 
story  house  was  thus  rented ;  the  occupants  saw  their 
landlady  only  when  they  paid  the  weekly  rent,  while 
they  hardly  ever  met  each  other.  Occasionally  they 
would  meet  on  the  stairs,  to  pass  rapidly  on  with- 
out greeting. 

Auban's  room  was  divided  into  two  unequal  parts 
by  a  screen,  half  as  high  as  the  ceiling;  it  hid  the 
bed,  and  left  free  the  greater  half,  which  was  chiefly 
occupied  by  an  unusually  large  table.  The  size  of 
the  table  corresponded  with  the  enormous  bookcase, 
which  reached  to  the  ceiling,  and  which  held  a  library 
that  was  probably  the  only  one  of  its  kind. 

It  contained,  first,  the  philosophical  and  politico- 
economical  works  of  the  great  thinkers  of  France, 
from  Helvetius  and  Say  to  Proudhon  and  Bastiat; 
less  complete  in  number,  but  in  the  best  edi- 
tions, those  of  the  English,  from  Smith  to  Spencer. 
86 


Carrard  Auban.  87 

Prominence  was  given  to  the  champions  of  Free 
Trade.  Further,  a  very  incomplete,  but  very  inter- 
esting collection  of  publications,  pamphlets,  papers, 
etc.,  concerning  the  history  of  the  revolutions  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  especially  those  of  the  fourth 
decade.  The  present  possessor,  who  had  for  a  long 
time  almost  entirely  neglected  this  legacy  of  his 
father,  now  valued  it  daily  more  and  more  according 
to  its  true  worth. 

Then  the  library  contained  an  almost  unclassifiable 
wealth  of  subordinate  material  dealing  with  the 
social  question :  surely  a  precious  mine  for  the  future 
student  of  th.e  history  of  the  labor  movements.  It 
had  been  collected  by  Auban  himself:  there  lay  piled 
up  whatever  the  day  had  pressed  into  his  hand.  It 
was  a  living  piece  of  the  labor  of  his  age,  and  surely 
not  the  worst.  .  .  . 

To  acquire  insight  was  Auban's  highest  aim.  It 
was  more  to  him  than  all  knowledge,  which  he 
regarded  only  as  an  aid  and  a  stepping-stone  to  the 
former. 

The  works  of  poetic  art  filled  only  one  shelf.  Here 
was  Victor  Hugo  beside  Shakspere,  Goethe  beside 
Balzac.  But  only  in  rare  moments  of  recreation  was 
one  or  the  other  of  these  volumes  taken  down. 

This  table,  whose  top  was  one  huge  piece  of 
mahogany,  and  this  library,  each  separate  book  of 
which  was  of  special  value  to  its  possessor, —  for  he 
had  the  habit  of  instantly  burning  every  book  which 
he  had  read  and  which  did  not  appear  important 
enough  to  be  read  by  him  again, —  constituted  the 
sole  wealth  of  Carrard  Auban.  It  had  accompanied 
him  from  Paris  to  London,  and  it  made  these  cold 
walls  in  the  foreign  land  seem  like  home  to  him. 

No  work  of  art  of  any  kind  adorned  the  room: 
every  object  bore  the  trace  of  daily  use. 

Two  little  portraits,  however,  hung  above  the 
fireplace.  The  one  represented  the  great  fanatic  of 
the  revolution  whose  wild  force  had  spent  itself 


88  The  Anarchists. 

against  the  walls  of  west  European  life;  and  the 
other,  the  great  thinker  of  the  century  behind  whose 
mighty  brow  a  new  world  seemed  to  be  in  travail, — 
Michael  Bakounine  and  Pierre  Joseph  Proudhon. 
The  pictures  were  gifts  to  Auban  from  the  only  per- 
son who  had  loved  him  ever  since  he  knew  him. 

Auban 's  eyes  rested  on  Proudhon 's  large,  thought- 
ful features,  and  he  thought  of  the  mighty  life  of 
that  man. 

He  was  sitting  before  the  fireplace,  on  a  low  arm- 
chair, and  stretching  his  feet  towards  the  warm 
flames.  So  his  long,  thin  figure  had  been  reclining 
for  two  hours,  his  eyes  now  fixed  upon  the  gently 
crackling  fire,  now  wandering  about  the  room  as  if 
following  the  thoughts  that  again  and  again  took 
flight. 

He  was  not  dreaming.  He  was  thinking,  restlessly 
and  incessantly. 

He  was  very  pale,  and  on  his  brow  lay,  like  morn- 
ing dew,  fine  pearls  of  cold  perspiration.  The 
usually  unvarying,  impassive  expression  of  his  face 
was  disturbed  by  the  labor  of  thought. 

.  It  was  a  cool,  damp,  foggy  October  afternoon,  from 
which  the  sun  had  turned  away  discouraged. 

Auban  stared  motionless  into  the  glow  of  the  fire 
which  illumined  the  room  in  proportion  as  the  grow- 
ing dusk  outside  enveloped  his  windows  in  closer 
folds. 

For  some  time  he  had  been  troubled  by  a  restless- 
ness which  he  could  not  explain.  The  harmony 
between  his  wishes  and  his  power  was  disturbed. 

Sometimes  of  late  he  thought  he  resembled  the 
man  who  had  squandered  a  princely  fortune,  and  now, 
a  beggar,  did  not  know  how  to  live. 

But  to-day  he  felt  how  a  superabundance  of  power 
and  ideas  was  urging  him  on  to  extraordinary  deeds. 

It  was  not  yet  clear  to  him:  was  his  will  not  equal 
to  his  power,  or  was  it  only  necessary  to  give  the 
first  impulse  to  the  latter  which  was  urging  him  on  ? 


Carrard  Auban.  89 

It  would  be  decided. 

Ever  since  Auban  began  to  think,  he  had  strug- 
gled—  struggled  against  everything  that  surrounded 
him.  As  a  boy  and  youth,  like  one  in  despair,  against 
external  fetters,  and  like  a  fool,  against  the  inevi- 
table ;  like  a  giant  against  shadows,  and  like  a  fanatic 
against  the  stronger.  As  a  man  he  had  struggled  with 
himself:  the  persistent,  exhausting,  hard  struggle 
with  himself,  with  his  own  prejudices,  his  own  im- 
aginations, his  exaggerated  hopes,  his  childish  ideals. 

Once  he  had  believed  that  mankind  must  radically 
change  before  he  could  be  free.  Then  he  saw  that 
he  himself  must  first  become  free  in  order  to  be  free. 

So  he  had  begun  to  clear  his  mind  of  all  the  cob- 
webs which  education,  error,  promiscuous  reading, 
had  deposited  there. 

He  felt  that  there  must,  again  be  light  and  clear- 
ness in  his  head,  if  he  did  not  wish  to  sink  away 
into  night  and  gloom.  The  important  thing  was  to 
find  himself,  to  become  mentally  free  from  all  fetters. 

He  again  became  himself.  It  again  grew  light 
and  clear  within  him ;  from  all  sides  the  sun  came 
flooding  in  upon  him;  and  happy,  like  a  convales- 
cent, he  basked  in  its  rays. 

Now  he  could  think  without  bitterness  of  his 
youth;  smile  over  its  errors,  and  no  longer  mourn 
over  years  apparently  lost  in  a  struggle  which  in  this 
age  each  must  fight  out  who  would  rise  above 
it.  ... 

Who  was  Carrard  Auban?  And  what  had  been 
his  life  until  now  ? 

He  was  now  nearly  thirty  years  old.  In  these 
thirty  years  he  had  acquired  externally  an  imperturb- 
able calm  and  superiority,  internally  a  cool  tranquil- 
lity, which,  however,  did  not  yet  save  him  from 
violent  emotions  of  pain  and  wrath.  .  .  .  He  was, 
in  one  word,  a  relentless  critic  who  recognized  no 
other  laws  than  those  of  nature. 


90  The  Anarchists. 

He  had  never  known  his  mother.  The  only  thing 
almost  and  the  last  that  he  remembered  of  his  earli- 
est youth  was  the  wild,  confused,  passionate  stories 
and  declamations  of  an  old  passionate  man,  pining 
away  in  ideals,  who  had  occupied  with  him  a  small, 
narrow,  always  disorderly  room  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
Boulevard  Clichy  —  in  one  of  those  streets  in  which 
so  often  a  profligate  life  hides  itself  under  the  air  of 
greatness.  This  man  was  his  father. 

How  his  father  had  come  to  marry  the  young  Ger- 
man who  had  lost  the  years  of  her  youth  in  the  ever- 
joyless  and  ever-depressing  position  of  a  governess 
in  Paris,  was  known  really  but  to  one  person.  This 
person  was  his  onty  friend,  and  his  name  was  Adolphe 
Ponteur.  After  Carrard  was  left  an  orphan  at  the 
age  of  six,  he  became  his  sole  protector,  and  what  he 
told  the  boy  in  later  years  about  his  father  was  as 
follows :  — 

The  cradle  of  Jean  Jacques  Auban  —  he  had  never 
been  baptized  with  that  Christian  name,  but  he 
never  called  himself  otherwise  —  had  been  rocked  on 
the  last  waves  of  the  great  revolution:  his  father  had 
been  a  grain  merchant,  who,  by  shrewd  speculations 
under  the  first  Napoldon,  had  retrieved  his  fallen 
fortunes  tenfold.  By  the  aid  of  the  same,  Jean 
Jacques  grew  to  be  almost  fifty  years  old  without 
learning  that  one  needs  money  in  order  to  live. 
When  he  was  brought  face  to  face  with  this  truth,  he 
was  a  man  wholly  unacquainted  with  life,  thoroughly 
happy  and  thoroughly  alone,  although  not  isolated. 
A  man  who  in  these  fifty  years  had  done  an  enormous 
amount  of  reading  and  learning  without  ever  think- 
ing of  utilizing  what  he  had  learned ;  a  revolutionist 
of  the  ideas  of  mankind  without  embittering  hopes 
and  almost  even  without  wishes;  a  child  and  an 
idealist  of  touching  simplicity  and  surprising  fresh- 
ness of  body  and  mind.  He  had  always  lived  in 
his  ideas,  never  in  life,  and  had  never  touched  a 
woman. 


Carrard  Auban.  91 

Half  a  century  had  passed  by  this  man  without 
having  drawn  him  into  its  whirlpool  and  devoured 
him.  The  clash  of  arms  of  the  Corsican  conqueror, 
raised  as  he  was  by  might  and  struck  down  by  it,  — 
by  might  great  and  small,  — pursued  him  throughout 
his  entire  youth.  But  he  paid  no  more  attention  to 
the  events  of  the  day  than  children  do  to  the  tales  of 
antiquity  told  by  their  nurses  and  teachers. 

The  revolution  of  1830  —  it  was  to  him  only  a 
shadow  that  fell  disturbingly  on  his  work.  .  .  . 

For  he  was  occupied  with  examining  anew  the 
terrible  mistakes  of  Malthus,  —  that  there  was  not 
enough  space  and  food  on  the  earth  for  all,  —  with- 
out being  able  to  detect  them. 

He  had  a  suspicion  of  the  approach  of  a  new  con- 
flict, compared  with  which  the  political  dissensions 
of  the  day  were  as  boys'  quarrels.  Therefore  he 
listened  with  the  same  attention  to  the  prophetic 
words  of  the  gifted  St.  Simon  as  to  the  wild  impreca- 
tions of  Baboeuf,  the  Communist;  therefore  he  stud- 
ied with  the  same  zeal  Fourier's  Phalanstere,  those 
impossible  fancies  of  a  lunatic,  and  the  labors  of  the 
reformers  during  the  regime  of  Louis  Philippe ;  and 
alternating  between  the  one  and  the  other  he  beheld 
to-day  in  the  Icaria  of  "  Father  Cabet "  the  promised 
land,  and  to-morrow  in  Louis  Blanc,  the  hypocritical 
rhetorician,  the  redeeming  saviour. 

He  saw  nothing  of  the  proletariat  which  in  the 
gray  dawn  of  those  decades,  as  one  awakening, 
heaved  its  first  heavy  sighs,  and  still  unconscious  of 
its  power  stretched  its  mighty  limbs. 

But  from  the  moment  in  which  the  necessity  of 
earning  his  own  living  overwhelmed  him,  all  was 
changed:  ten  years  sufficed  to  make  of  the  retired, 
healthy,  and  studious  man  an  embittered,  rapidly 
aging  individual,  who  was  yet  daily  more  awakening 
to  life.  It  was  no  longer  the  great  idols  whom  he 
loved;  he  began  to  make  fun  of  them,  and  to  partici- 
pate in  the  ideas  and  petty  struggles  of  the  day 


92  The  Anarchists. 

which  had  disgusted  him  for  fifty  years.  It  was 
exceedingly  difficult  for  him  to  put  his  knowledge 
and  talents  to  practical  use ;  he  lived  poorly,  in  sub- 
ordinate positions  of  the  most  various  kinds ;  too  old 
to  acquire  the  full  meaning  of  life,  and  too  young, 
in  his  young  awakening,  not  to  seize  it  with  all  the 
impetuosity  of  the  inexperienced  youth  of  twenty, 
he  was  driven  from  one  disappointment  to  another, 
which  did  not  make  his  judgment  clearer  or  his 
step  firmer. 

So  the  February  revolution  saw  the  aging  man  on 
the  barricades  among  the  crowds  of  the  insurgents 
who  fought  for  the  phantom  of  political  liberty.  His 
enthusiasm  and  his  courage  were  no  whit  less  than 
those  of  the  workingmen  in  their  blue  blouses,  beside 
whom  he  stood. 

The  fall  of  the  July  government  filled  him  with 
boundless  hopes.  His  books  were  covered  with  dust; 
the  past  of  his  quiet  life  of  contemplation  lay  extin- 
guished behind  him. 

He  was  now  a  workingman.  The  Luxembourg, 
where  the  delegates  of  his  class  were  enthroned  on 
deserted  cushioned  seats,  was  the  heaven  to  which  he 
also  looked  for  counsel  and  assistance.  Daily  he 
went  to  the  mairie  of  his  arrondissement  to  claim  the 
sum  which  the  State  was  compelled  to  pay  to  all 
unemployed  workingmen  —  what  work  could  Jean 
Jacques  have  done  in  the  national  workshops  ? 

He  did  not  see  the  madness  of  this  decree  which 
was  destined  to  lead  to  new  and  more  bloody  con- 
flicts. For  there  were  two  things  which  he  had  not 
yet  learned  in  the  fifties :  that  the  State  can  pay  out 
only  what  it  has  taken  in;  and  that  therefore  all 
attempts  to  solve  the  social  question  through  the 
State  from  above  are  doomed  from  the  start. 

But  when  he  might  have  learned  it  from  his  own 
experience,  during  the  days  of  the  June  insurrection, 
in  which  labor  took  up  its  first  real  struggle  with 
capital,  and  drew  the  lesson  from  the  terrible  defeat 


Carrard  Auban.  93 

of  that  most  remarkable  of  all  battles,  that  the  privi- 
leges of  authority  must  be  met  by  more  deadly 
weapons  than  those  of  force,  he  was  lying  ill  under 
the  strain  of  the  unusual  excitement. 

It  was  his  good  fortune.  For  he  who  had  taken 
part  in  the  political  revolution  of  February,  —  the 
day  of  reckoning  of  the  bourgeoisie  with  royalty,  — 
the  unimportance  of  which  he  was  incapable  of 
recognizing,  how  could  he  have  held  aloof  from  the 
days  in  which  the  proletariat  would  fain  have  had  its 
reckoning  with  the  bourgeoisie  f  Would  he  not  have 
met  with  a  sad  end,  thirsting  and  rotting  in  the 
frightful  cellar  holes  in  which  the  prisoners  were 
penned,  or  perishing  as  a  banished  convict  in  one  of 
the  trans-oceanic  penal  colonies  of  his  country? 

He  was  spared  that  fate.  When  he  arose,  trem- 
bling Paris  was  in  a  state  of  terror  before  the  red 
spectre  of  Socialism. 

A  man  had  appeared  upon  the  scene  who  penetrated 
men  and  things  more  deeply  than  any  before  him. 
Proudhon  had  founded  his  first  paper,  the  "  Repre- 
sentant  du  Peuple,"  and  delivered  his  celebrated  and 
notorious  address  on  the  gratuity  and  mutuality  of 
credit  in  the  National  Assembly  amidst  scorn  and 
ridicule. 

But  Auban  saw  in  the  greatest  and  most  daring 
man  of  his  time  nothing  but  a  traitor  to  the  "  cause 
of  the  people,"  because  he  had  not  taken  part  in  the 
battles  of  July. 

Blind  as  he  was,  he  could  just  as  little  appreciate 
the  project  —  perhaps  the  most  important  and  far- 
reaching  which  ever  sprang  from  a  human  brain  — 
which  Proudhon  discussed  for  half  a  year  as  the 
"Banque  d'e*change,"  and  which  from  December, 
1848,  till  April  of  the  following  year  he  sought  to 
realize  as  the  "Banque  du  Peuple,"  in  his  second 
paper,  "Le  Peuple,"  until  the  brutal  hand  of  power 
completely  demolished  the  almost  finished  structure 
by  imprisoning  its  author. 


94  The  Anarchists. 

What  in  the  confusion  of  the  day,  the  father  could 
not  comprehend,  perhaps  because  it  was  too  near 
him,  the  son  was  to  grasp  in  its  entire  range  and 
tremendous  significance :  that  each  one  by  means  of 
the  principle  of  mutualism,  and  independently  of  the 
State,  could  exchange  his  labor  at  its  full  value,  and 
thus  in  one  word  —  make  himself  free ! 

This  last,  greatest,  most  bloodless  of  all  revolu- 
tions, the  only  one  that  carries  with  it  the  guarantee 
of  a  lasting  victory  —  Jean  Jacques  passed  through 
its  first  awakening  almost  with  indifference. 

The  election  of  Louis  Napole'on  destroyed  the  last 
of  his  hopes.  From  that  time  he  hated  Cavaignac, 
the  faithless  one,  no  more  than  that  usurper. 

It  took  a  long  time  before  he  could  recover  from 
his  gloomy  torpor.  It  took  years.  He  lived  through 
them  in  constant  care  for  his  daily  bread.  Perhaps 
it  was  this  care  that  kept  him  alive.  His  late  mar- 
riage was  more  the  result  of  an  accident  than  of 
deliberate  intention.  He  met  the  woman  whom  he 
loved  in  the  house  in  which  she  was  a  governess, 
and  into  which  he  came  to  complete  the  education  of 
two  stupid  boys.  The  sad  dependence  of  their  posi- 
tion brought  them  closer  together :  she  took  an  inter- 
est in  him,  and  he  loved  this  girl  of  twenty-seven 
years  sincerely. 

They  lived  together  in  a  quiet  and  not  great,  but 
secure,  happiness.  Carrard  was  born,  the  son  of  a 
man  who  had  long  passed  the  meridian  of  his  life, 
and  of  a  woman  who  was  still  far  from  it. 

The  mother  died  at  his  birth.  Jean  Jacques  broke 
down  completely.  He  was  now  indeed  an  old  and 
a  wearjr  man.  He  had  lost  his  faith  with  his 
vigor.  His  passion  had  fled,  and  what  he  tried  to 
give  out  as  such  was  only  vehement,  excited  dec- 
lamation. In  the  midst  of  this  and  the  clumsy 
tenderness  of  Adolphe  Ponteur,  the  little  Carrard 
grew  up,  and  was  six  years  old  when  his  father  died 
with  a  terrible  curse  upon  the  third  Napole'on,  and 


Carrard  Aulan.  95 

without  a  look  for  him.  Such  is  the  story,  in  rough 
outlines,  which  Adolphe  Ponteur  told  the  child  about 
his  parents  in  the  years  when  he  was  a  better  father 
to  him  than  the  real  one  could  ever  have  been.  He 
shared  his  scanty  bread,  his  narrow  room,  and  his 
old  heart  with  the  boy ;  he  wished  to  teach  him  to 
read  and  write  himself,  and  took  a  great  deal  of  pride 
in  carrying  it  out ;  but  it  became  evident  that  it  was 
not  Carrard,  but  he  himself  who  lacked  the  talent 
therefor.  So  he  sent  him  at  his  ninth  year  into  the 
large  city  school  of  his  arrondissement. 

The  war  of  1870  came,  and  the  boy  had  reached 
his  thirteenth  year.  Adolphe  dreamed  of  the  gloire 
of  his  countrymen,  and  Carrard  continued  to  live  on 
unconcerned. 

The  days  of  the  Commune  had  come,  in  which  all 
Paris  seemed  again  to  be  a  chaos  of  blood,  smoke, 
noise,  rage,  and  madness ;  with  terror  Adolphe  saw 
a  flame  leap  from  the  dark  eyes  of  the  boy  which, 
for  the  first  time,  reminded  him  of  Jean  Jacques, 
and  he,  the  honest  bourgeois  who  had  always  seen 
only  the  external  horrors  of  a  revolution  without 
being  able  to  recognize  its  internal  blessings,  was  so 
frightened  by  it  that  he  resolved  to  separate  himself 
from  him,  and  to  send  him  away  from  that  "poi- 
soned "  Paris  —  that  Paris  without  which  he  himself 
could  not  live. 

He  took  him  to  Alsatia,  to  Mulhausen,  that  dull, 
large  factory  city  which,  after  the  "great  war" 
had  spent  its  rage,  found  itself  in  the  difficult  posi- 
tion of  steadying  itself  on  the  boundary  line  between 
the  exhausted  but  not  conciliated  enemies.  Ponteur 
had  a  relative  there  who  stood  alone,  a  genuine 
Frenchwoman,  who  had  never  learned  a  word  of 
German,  and  Carrard  had  relatives  on  his  mother's 
side, — a  German  government  official,  who  had  secured 
the  call  to  that  higher  position  by  extraordinary 
diplomatic  gifts,  i.e.  by  the  fine  art  of  hiding  his 
thoughts  and  feelings  behind  words. 


96  The  Anarchists. 

Mademoiselle  Ponteur  treated  Carrard  with  exceed- 
ing care  and  kindness,  gave  him  a  little  room  and 
board,  and  for  the  rest  allowed  him  to  do  as  he  liked. 
In  the  four  years  in  which  he  lived  under  her  roof, 
which  had  nothing  more  to  protect  than  the  quiet 
memories  of  the  past,  he  did  not  once  approach  her 
with  a  request,  nor  did  she  ever  venture  to  offer 
him  advice.  She  was  entirely  at  sea  concerning 
what  to  do  with  him,  and  felt  very  much  relieved 
when  she  noticed  —  and  she  noticed  it  at  once  — 
that  the  boy  had  already  very  well  learned  to  take 
care  of  himself. 

The  relatives  on  his  mother's  side  fulfilled  their 
duties  towards  him  by  inviting  him  once  a  week  to 
their  family  table,  where  he  sat  in  the  midst  of  a 
spoiled  and  noisy  lot  of  children  whose  language  he 
understood  at  first  not  at  all,  and  later  only  with 
difficulty,  where  he  always  felt  very  uncomfortable, 
and  where  he  again  succeeded  in  having  no  further 
notice  taken  of  him  and  no  criticism  passed  when 
his  visits  became  fewer  and  fewer. 

At  Mademoiselle  Ponteur's  he  learned  to  appre- 
ciate his  solitude  and  independence;  at  his  rela- 
tives he  conceived  an  inextinguishable  repugnance 
to  German  middle-class  life. 

He  remained  five  years  in  that  place  —  five  years  in 
which  he  did  not  once  return  to  Paris.  He  spent 
his  vacations  making  excursions  through  the  south- 
ern Vosges  mountains,  Avhich  are  so  little  known 
and  so  beautiful  in  their  solitude  and  chaste  severity. 
He  looked  towards  Paris  when  he  walked  along  the 
summit  of  the  mountains. 

At  the  age  of  fifteen  he  found  a  friend  in  the 
strange  city.  He  was  a  French  workingman  who 
had  known  his  father,  and  who  had  in  some  way 
heard  of  Carrard,  and  spoke  to  him  one  day  as  he  was 
coming  from  school.  From  that  day  Carrard  sat 
every  evening,  after  work,  in  a  small  inn,  in  the 
midst  of  a  circle  of  workingmen,  among  whom  there 


Carrard  Auban.  97 

was  none  who  was  not  at  least  double  his  years, 
and  of  whom  each  thought  it  was  his  special  duty  to 
show  some  kindness  to  the  "  pauvre  enfant "  who  was 
here  "so  alone."  One  made  cigarettes  for  him, 
another  taught  him  to  play  billiards,  and  a  third  told 
him  of  past  glorious  days  when  the  nations  had 
attempted  to  make  themselves  free :  "  Vive  la  Com- 
mune ! "  .  .  . 

Carrard  heard  about  the  hopes  and  the  wishes  of 
the  people  out  of  the  mouths  of  those  who  belonged 
to  them.  He  began  to  suspect,  to  see,  to  think. 
But  only  as  through  a  veil. 

The  school  became  a  prison  to  him,  because  it 
compelled  him  to  learn  what  he  considered  useless 
and  did  not  teach  him  what  he  wanted  to  know.  It 
gave  him  no  answer  to  any  of  the  questions  which  he 
never  asked. 

He  had  no  friends  among  his  schoolmates.  He 
was  not  popular,  but  no  one  would  have  dared  to  put 
an  obstacle  in  his  way. 

Only  one  sought  his  friendship:  it  was  the  oldest 
son  of  his  relatives.  His  name  was  Frederick 
Waller,  —  Waller  had  also  been  the  maiden  name  of 
Carrard's  mother,  —  and  he  was  the  same  age  as 
Carrard,  with  whom  for  years  he  attended  the  same 
classes  in  the  same  school.  He  was  intelligent  with- 
out special  gifts,  indifferent  without  being  able  to 
wholly  suppress  some  real  interest  in  Carrard,  and 
possessed  of  the  desire  to  win  his  confidence,  which 
the  latter,  even  in  matters  of  the  most  common  con- 
cern, never  gave  him ;  and  notwithstanding  that  this 
inaccessibility  often  embittered  him,  he  never  in 
these  years  lost  a  feeling  of  sympathy  for  Carrard 
which  was  composed  of  interest,  admiration,  and 
curiosity. 

Carrard  was,  in  his  eighteenth  year,  tall  and  pale, 
outwardly  perfectly  calm,  inwardly  consumed  by 
thoughts  and  passions,  passing  his  days  in  gloomy 
resignation  on  the  school  benches  and  in  free  and 


98  The  Anarchists. 

easy  intercourse  with  his  friends,  the  workingmen, 
at  Pere  Francois,  and  his  nights  in  mad  pondering 
over  God  and  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  and  those 
thousand  questions  which  every  thinking  man  must 
once  in  his  life  have  solved  for  and  in  himself. 

When  he  had  reached  his  fifteenth  year,  he  received 
the  report  from  Paris  of  the  death  of  his  old  friend 
—  it  was  the  last  time  in  his  life  that  he  was  ahle  to 
soothe  his  pain  by  tears ;  two  years  later  the  woman 
died  in  whose  house  he  had  lived  for  years,  and  with 
whom  he  had  never  exchanged  an  intimate,  but  also 
never  an  unfriendly  word.  She  had  really  come  to 
like  him,  but  never  possessed  the  courage  to  tell 
him  so.  He  had  never  been  able  to  offer  her  either 
more  or  less  than  an  unvarying  distant  respect. 

He  passed  one  year  more  in  another  family.  Then 
he  returned  to  Paris  with  a  passably  fair  certificate, 
with  which  he  did  not  know  what  to  do,  and  with 
an  unshaken  belief  in  the  future.  He  greeted  the 
city  of  his  childhood  like  a  mother  already  given  up 
as  lost:  for  days  he  did  nothing  but  wander  bliss- 
fully through  the  streets  of  the  city  with  wide-open 
eyes  and  a  beating  heart,  and  let  the  odor  of  the 
metropolis  act  on  his  excited  senses  —  that  odor  which 
is  as  intoxicating  and  stupefying  as  the  kiss  of  a 
first  love  in  the  first  night.  .  .  . 

He  was  looking  for  work  and  felt  glad  not  to  find 
any  during  the  first  four  weeks.  What  mattered  it 
that  in  those  four  weeks  he  spent  the  small  sum 
which  he  possessed  as  a  legacy  from  the  man  who 
had  tenderly  loved  him?  He  lived  in  Batignolles. 
Often  he  rose  with  the  sun  and  wandered  through 
the  dewy  paths  of  the  Pare  Monceaux,  and  past  the 
antique,  serious  structure  of  the  Madeleine,  upon  the 
broad,  clear  place  which  in  the  last  two  centuries 
has  drank  so  much  blood,  and  yet  was  lying  there 
in  its  broad,  gray,  clear  area,  shone  upon  by  the  sun, 
flooded  by  the  roaring  life,  like  a  serene  calm  in  an 
eternal  riot;  wandered  down  to  the  beautiful  river 


Carrard  Auban.  99 

with  its  broad  shores,  and  looked  at  the  work  which 
from  there  fructified  Paris,  until  he  sat  down  tired  on 
one  of  the  benches  in  the  gardens  of  the  Tuileries, 
surrounded  by  the  laughter  of  the  children,  while  he 
turned  the  leaves  of  a  book  which  he  did  not  read. 
Then,  when  noon  had  come,  and  he  had  taken  his 
meal  in  one  of  the  countless  modest  restaurants  of 
the  Palais  Royal,  he  could  again  sit  for  hours  before 
one  of  the  cafSs  on  the  great  boulevards  and  let  this 
nervous,  ever-excited  life  pass  by  his  half-closed 
eyes  in  a  sort  of  somniferous,  sweet  insensibility, 
until  he  roused  himself,  and  sauntering  down  the 
Champs  iSlyse'es,  sought  the  shady  paths  and  seques- 
tered stillness  of  the  Bois  for  the  late  hours  of  the 
afternoon,  to  return  in  the  evening  —  after  hastily 
partaking  of  some  refreshments  in  one  of  the  small 
public  houses  of  Auteuil  —  to  the  citg  in  one  of  the 
steamboats  on  the  Seine,  where  in  silent  devotion 
he  greeted  the  steeples  of  Notre  Dame  disappearing 
in  the  dusk.  He  was  seldom  attracted  by  the  amuse- 
ments offered  for  the  evening;  but  he  loved  to 
saunter  through  the  Quartier  Latin,  from  one  cafe 
to  another,  and  to  watch  the  noisy  life  of  the  students 
and  their  girls ;  or  in  the  neighborhood  of  his  dwell- 
ing, to  end  the  evening  in  a  small  inn  in  conversa- 
tion with  a  workingman  or  a  retail  dealer  on  the 
politics  of  the  day,  when  the  mighty  bustle  of  the 
boulevards  had  stupefied,  and  their  endless  rows  of 
lights  blinded  him.  .  .  . 

It  was  the  honeymoon  of  his  love.  A  confused, 
intoxicated  bliss  had  entirely  captured  him.  After 
the  past  years  of  solitude  and  monotony  he  drank  of 
this  goblet  of  joy  which  was  filled  to  the  rim  and 
seemed  as  if  it  could  not  be  drained. 

"O  Paris!"  Carrard  Auban  then  said,  "how  I 
love  you!  How  I  love  you!  Do  you  not  belong 
to  me  also  ?  Am  not  I  also  your  child  ?  "  And  pride 
swelled  his  young  bosom  and  shone  from  his  eyes 
which  had  never  been  so  young.  He  was  still  like 


100  The  Anarchists. 

the  growing  vine  which  climbed  upwards  on  foreign 
grandeur  and  embraced  it  with  the  arms  of  longing 
and  hope  to  grow  strong  on  it  alone.  .  .  . 

But  when  his  pleasure  and  his  money  were,  never- 
theless, on  the  wane,  and  he  saw  himself  forced  to 
think  how  he  was  henceforth  to  live,  he  was  not 
frightened.  It  did  not  seem  to  his  courage  as  a 
matter  too  difficult.  And  yet  it  was  only  a  very 
rare  and  happy  accident  which  led  him  into  a  con- 
versation on  that  day  in  the  Jardin  des  Tuileries 
with  a  gentleman  who  was  looking  for  a  secretary, 
and  offered  him  that  position. 

Auban  worked  with  him  —  a  rather  free  and  not 
overtaxed  life  —  for  two  years,  receiving  a  modest 
salary,  which  was,  however,  sufficient  for  his  needs. 
He  was  not  interested  in  the  work.  He  was  not 
a  methodical  and,  therefore,  not  a  good  workman  in 
the  matter  of  copying  letters  and  keeping  the  library 
of  his  employer  in  order.  But  he  became  indispen- 
sable to  him  by  helping  him  —  the  English  specialist, 
a  strange  mixture  of  thoroughness  in  the  settling  of 
some  unimportant  scientific  question  and  of  child- 
ish superficiality  in  drawing  conclusions  from  his 
work  —  to  improve  his  faulty  French,  in  which  lan- 
guage he  was  fond  of  recording  his  worthless  dis- 
coveries. 

When  he  returned  to  England,  he  gave  Auban  — 
although  he  had  never  even  by  a  question  evinced 
the  slightest  interest  in  his  secretary,  or  showed  that 
he  saw  in  him  anything  but  a  tool  for  his  work  — 
a  number  of  letters  of  recommendation,  which  were 
entirely  useless,  and  a  sum  of  money,  large  enough  to 
be  of  great  service  to  him  in  the  immediate  future. 

Auban  was  again  free  for  some  time.  Although 
he  had  already  in  these  two  years  followed  the  social 
movement  of  his  country  with  the  liveliest  interest 
and  made  the  acquaintance  of  a  number  of  its  moving 
spirits,  he  now  threw  himself  —  with  a  great  shout 
of  joy  —  into  its  tide. 


Carrard  Auban.  101 

It  took  him  up  as  it  takes  up  and  devours  every- 
thing. .  .  . 

Broad,  dark,  mysterious,  like  the  impenetrable 
thicket  of  the  primeval  forest,  the  domain  of  the 
social  question  —  of  the  future  of  mankind  —  lay 
before  his  eyes.  Fresh,  young,  ready,  he  was  stand- 
ing before  it. 

Behind  him  a  confused  childhood,  —  roads  across 
fields,  already  trodden,  and  paths  across  mown  mead- 
ows, already  again  overgrown,  —  and  before  him  the 
great  mystery,  the  ideal  to  which  he  would  dedicate 
his  life. 

The  rustling  of  the  voices  in  the  wilderness  before 
him  seemed  to  give  answer  to  those  confused  lamen- 
tations that  had  sounded  about  his  cradle  in  the 
garret. 

And  he  began. 

It  was  impossible  to  enter  with  purer  intentions, 
with  hotter  wishes,  and  with  a  bolder  will  upon  the 
conflict  which  is  the  conflict  of  the  present  and  the 
coming  time. 

Auban,  not  yet  twenty-three  years  old,  saw  in 
this  conflict  two  armies :  on  the  one  side  were  those 
who  wanted  the  bad ;  on  the  other  those  who  aspired 
to  the  good.  The  former  appeared  to  him  wholly 
corrupt,  already  in  a  state  of  dissolution,  already 
half  conquered;  the  latter,  the  healthy  soil,  ready  to 
receive  the  seed  of  the  future. 

He  was  overwhelmed  by  the  imperiousness  of  the 
movement,  and  wholly  unable  to  exercise  his  judg- 
ment. He  was  intoxicated  by  the  idea  of  being  one 
in  these  ranks  who  were  challenging  the  world  to 
conflict.  He  felt  himself  raised,  filled  by  new, 
glorious  hopes,  strengthened,  and  as  if  transformed. 

Is  there  any  one  who  on  joining  the  movement  has 
not  sometime  experienced  similar,  the  same,  emotions  ? 

He  attended  the  meetings  and  listened  to  the 
words  of  the  various  speakers.  The  farther  they 
inclined  towards  the  "left,"  the  greater  was  his 


102  The  Anarchists. 

interest  and  his  applause.  He  became  a  guest  in 
the  clubs  in  which  the  workingmen  associated.  He 
listened  to  the  wishes  as  he  heard  them  from  their 
own  mouths.  He  read  the  papers:  radical,  social- 
istic, the  dailies  and  the  weeklies.  In  every  prater 
of  liberty  he  saw  a  god;  and  in  every  political 
phrase-monger  a  hero.  .  .  . 

Until  now  he  had  shown  no  marked  energy. 
Especially  the  latter  years  had  made  him  common- 
place. Now  his  capacity  for  work  grew.  He  did 
really  work  —  the  whole,  laborious  work  which  the 
entrance  into  a  new  world  of  ideas  exacts  of  one. 

From  all  sides  the  tide  of  new  ideas  was  streaming 
in  upon  him.  He  mastered  slowly  the  chaos  of 
pamphlets  in  which  a  diluted  extract  of  scientific 
investigations  is  often  offered  to  the  undisciplined 
mind  in  such  a  strange  way.  Then  he  took  up  the 
study  of  some  of  the  principal  works  of  Socialism 
itself. 

His  habits  of  life  changed.  He  did  not  wish  to 
be  a  bourgeois  or  appear  like  one  for  any  considera- 
tion. He  exchanged  his  little  room  for  one  in  the 
workingmen's  quarter  of  the  Buttes  Chaumont.  He 
simplified  his  dress  until  it  was  extremely  modest, 
though  never  disorderly.  He  ate  in  the  taverns 
with  the  workingmen.  However,  his  expenses  did 
not  grow  less  in  consequence.  Only  the  feeling  of 
shame  at  being  "better"  than  his  starving  brothers 
he  no  longer  experienced  under  these  perpetual,  self- 
imposed  privations. 

True  to  the  teachings  which  he  accepted,  he  began 
to  work  as  a  manual  laborer.  As  he  had  not  learned  a 
trade,  he  was  obliged  to  look  about  a  long  time  before 
he  could  gain  a  firm  footing.  He  first  became  a 
typesetter,  then  a  proof-reader,  in  the  office  of  a 
Socialistic  daily  paper. 

It  was  at  this  time,  too,  that  he  wrrote  his  first 
articles.  Nothing  brings  people  more  quickly  and 
more  closely  together  than  the  struggle  in  the  ser- 


Carrard  Auban.  103 

vice  of  a  common  cause.  Quickly  the  noose  of  a 
programme  is  thrown  round  one's  neck.  Instantly 
it  is  drawn  together:  henceforth  your  energies  must 
be  directed  at  the  one  fixed  aim ;  your  course  has  been 
determined  for  you;  the  use  of  your  powers  pre- 
ordained. 

Such  is  the  party! 

Auban  had  joined  the  ranks  voluntarily.  Now  he 
was  no  longer  anything  more  than  the  soldier  who 
had  sworn  to  follow  the  waving  flag  at  the  front: 
whither  it  points,  there  lies  the  goal.  If  your  reason 
revolts,  appeal  is  made  to  your  sense  of  honor,  to 
your  loyalty.  You  are  no  longer  free — you  have 
sworn  to  free  others ! 

But  also  for  Auban  the  time  soon  came  when  he 
was  able  to  exercise  his  own  judgment.  He  saw  the 
tremendous  dissensions  of  this  movement.  He  saw 
that  ambition,  envy,  hate,  and  trivial  vulgarity 
covered  themselves  here  with  the  same  pomp  of 
idealism  —  the  word-garments  of  fraternity,  justice, 
and  liberty  —  as  in  all  other  parties  of  public  life. 

He  saw  it  with  a  pain  such  as  he  had  never  before 
experienced. 

He  was  still  very  young.  He  still  did  not  want 
to  understand  that  the  prominent  leaders  of  the 
parties  never  dreamed  of  mutually  taking  these 
words  seriously ;  that  to  the  Conservatives  the  "  wel- 
fare of  the  country,"  the  "public  peace  and  secu- 
rity"; to  the  Radicals  the  "free  constitution,"  "loyal 
citizenship";  to  the  workingmen's  parties  the  "right 
to  labor,"  and  the  fine  phrases  about  equality  and 
justice,  were  simply  but  a  bait  with  which  to  draw 
to  their  side,  in  the  largest  possible  numbers,  the 
mentally  blind,  and  so  by  the  right  of  the  majority 
to  become  the  stronger. 

Had  not  he  himself,  during  the  year  in  which  he 
almost  daily  wrote  something  for  the  paper  of  his 
party,  fought  with  these  words  —  the  battle  in  the  air! 
—  without  ever  having  carefully  scrutinized  them? 


104  The  Anarchists. 

And  he  had  fought  with  enthusiasm  and  honesty,  in 
the  good  faith  that  there  was  no  other  and  better 
way  to  free  the  oppressed  and  persecuted. 

He  wanted  only  one  thing,  only  one  thing :  liberty ! 
liberty !  The  voice  of  his  reason,  the  wild  lamenta- 
tions of  his  passionate  heart,  called  out  to  him  that 
the  happiness  and  the  progress  of  mankind  lay  only 
in  liberty.  This  incessant  thirst  for  liberty  drove 
him  through  all  the  phases  of  the  politico-social 
movement.  No  creed  satisfied  him.  Nowhere  did 
he  find  the  premises  invulnerable,  the  conditions 
fulfilled,  the  guarantees  secured. 

He  was  constantly  haunted  by  the  searching 
thought,  by  the  unsatisfied  feeling:  it  is  not  liberty, 
complete  liberty!  He  felt  how  his  aversion  to  all 
authority  was  growing.  Therefore  he  resigned  his 
position. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  he  made  the  closer  ac- 
quaintance of  Otto  Trupp,  whom  he  had  already  often 
seen,  and  formed  friendship  with  him.  Through 
him  he  learned  about  the  movement  of  the  working- 
men  in  Germany  and  Switzerland,  of  which  he  had 
hitherto  heard  but  little.  Trupp's  accounts  made  a 
deep  impression  on  him. 

It  was  in  the  year  1881.  The  idea  of  Anarchism 
was  rapidly  spreading  in  France.  From  the  party 
ranks  of  Socialism,  it  tore  crowds  of  the  more  inde- 
pendently thinking  workingmen,  of  people  dissatis- 
fied with  some  of  the  actions  of  the  prominent 
leaders,  then  all  those  whose  feverish  impatience 
could  not  abide  the  time  of  the  revolution  —  of 
deliverance. 

If  the  State,  private  property,  and  religion  were 
no  more,  if  all  the  institutions  of  authority  were 
abolished,  could  authority  still  continue?  The 
thing  to  be  done  was  to  oppose  force  to  the  ruling 
force ! 

The  idea  of  the  destruction  of  the  old  world  took 
possession  of  him.  Only  on  its  ruins,  if  all  was 


Carrard  Auban.  105 

destroyed,  could  arise  that  society  which  recognized 
equality  as  its  first  principle.  "  To  each  according 
to  his  needs,  from  each  according  to  his  powers !  " 
Now  he  had  found  the  formula  in  which  he  could 
seek  refuge.  And  his  dreams  reared  the  structure 
of  the  future  of  humanity:  they  built  it  high,  broad, 
and  beautiful.  .  .  .  Everybody  would  be  contented : 
all  hopes  fulfilled,  all  desires  satisfied.  Labor  and 
exchange  would  be  voluntary;  nothing  henceforth 
to  determine  their  limits,  not  even  their  value.  The 
earth  belongs  to  all  equally.  Each  has  a  right  to  it 
as  he  has  a  right  to  be  a  human  being.  And  he 
reared  the  proud  structure  of  his  thoughts — reared 
it  into  the  heavens !  .  .  . 

This  creed  of  Communism  which  is  as  old  as  the 
religions  that  have  made  of  the  earth  not  a  heaven, 
but  a  hell,  he  called  Anarchism,  as  his  friends 
called  it  Anarchism. 

Never  had  his  words  been  more  impressive,  never 
had  they  aroused  greater  enthusiasm.  He  was  now 
standing  on  the  outermost  boundary  of  the  empire 
of  parties!  It  was  impossible  to  go  further.  He 
sacrificed  himself.  He  was  more  active  than  ever 
before,  organizing  and  agitating.  Everywhere  he 
found  new  comrades. 

It  was  the  wildest  year  of  his  life.  Not  a  day  for 
introspection  and  not  a  night  for  rest. 

He  was  too  much  a  man  of  energy  who  liked  to 
see  positive  results,  to  be  satisfied  with  this  hasty, 
feverish  activity  of  the  propaganda.  Meanwhile 
the  circle  of  his  practical  experiences  was  enlarging 
without  being  noticed  by  him.  He  understood  his 
comrades:  their  passionate  denunciations,  their  cry- 
ing sufferings,  their  embittered  imprecations.  Daily 
he  saw  here  the  needy  and  the  starving  about  him, 
himself  often  hungry  and  in  despair;  daily  there 
shameless  debauchery,  baseless  insolence,  scornful 
arrogance,  —  maintained  only  by  force.  Then  he 
clenched  his  fists,  while  his  heart  contracted  in  con- 


106  The  Anarchists. 

vulsions;  then  he  preached  without  hesitation  and 
from  his  deepest  conviction  the  creed:  to  destroy 
force  by  force ;  then  it  appeared  to  him  as  of  the  first 
importance  that  the  starving  should  have  bread,  the 
shivering  fuel,  and  the  naked  clothing.  What  were 
all  the  achievements  of  science,  of  art,  what  was  all 
the  progress  of  mankind,  beside  these  prime  and 
absolute  requirements?  Everywhere  he  preached 
force,  in  all  meetings,  in  all  societies.  He  attracted 
attention.  But — as  usually  happens  —  it  was  only 
an  accident  that  turned  the  scales  in  this  case. 

One  of  the  meetings  which  he  also  wished  to 
address  was  suppressed.  On  dispersing  the  crowd, 
a  policeman  seized  him  by  the  arm  and  pushed  him 
brutally  against  the  wall.  He  struck  the  officer  in 
the  face  with  his  fist. 

True  to  the  principles  which  make  it  obligatory 
upon  the  revolutionist  "to  serve  the  propaganda  in 
every  possible  case,  especially  in  court  if  the  cir- 
cumstances in  any  way  permit,"  Auban  delivered  a 
speech  Irefore  the  judge  which  created  a  sensation. 
Again  and  again  had  prisoners,  when  arraigned,  raised 
the  question  of  the  jurisdiction  of  the  court,  but 
never  had  any  one  in  like  manner  denied  the  authority 
of  all  law. 

People  were  surprised,  —  some  indignant,  some 
amused.  They  considered  him  irresponsible.  So 
Auban  was  sentenced  to  only  a  year  and  half  of 
imprisonment. 

To-day  the  courts  of  the  civilized  countries  of 
Europe,  when  they  hear  such  language,  know  that 
it  is  an  "  enemy  of  order "  who  is  before  them,  and 
do  not  again  let  him  go. 

In  1883,  hardly  a  year  after  Auban 's  conviction, 
the  great  Anarchist  trial  of  the  Sixty-Six  at  Lyons 
stirred  up  the  entire  community  and  directed  general 
attention  to  the  new  creed.  This  blow,  which  the 
government  went  far  out  of  its  way  to  deal,  would 
undoubtedly  have  struck  Auban  also,  had  he  not 


Carrard  Auban.  107 

already  been  inside  the  walls  of  a  prison.  In  the 
view  of  "public  opinion"  the  name  "Anarchist" 
was  almost  synonymous  with  assassin  from  that  time 
in  France  too.  .  .  . 

When  Auban  felt  the  fists  of  the  police  hirelings 
on  his  body,  the  essence  of  force  became  clear  to  him 
in  all  its  brutality.  His  pride  rose  in  revolt.  But 
he  was  —  "powerless."  The  idea  of  suffering  in  the 
cause  of  humanity  sustained  him.  He  saw  neither 
the  cold  smile  of  the  judges,  nor  the  dull,  curious 
looks  of  the  spectators  who  viewed  him  as  a  strange 
variety  of  their  race.  Not  a  muscle  of  his  face 
twitched  as  he  heard  his  sentence.  A  year  and  a 
half!  That  was  nothing.  What  a  ridiculously 
paltry  sacrifice  compared  with  the  thousand-fold  sac- 
rifices of  the  martyrs  —  to  think  only  of  the  heroic 
death  of  the  murderers  of  the  Czar !  —  who  had  suf- 
fered before  him!  With  proud  contempt  he  entered 
the  prison. 

Never  was  the  first  period  of  a  man's  sentence 
more  heavily  borne,  the  last  more  lightly,  than  by 
him. 

At  first  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  not  live  a 
month  without  the  air  and  the  sun  of  liberty.  He 
was  mistaken.  In  the  beginning  a  dull  and  heavy 
rest  took  possession  of  him:  the  rest  of  exhaustion 
after  these  last  stormy  years !  It  did  him  good.  He 
drank  it  almost  as  some  heali»g  medicine.  Gone 
were  the  hourly  excitements !  Gone  the  conflicting 
noise !  For  a  long  time  the  blood  continued  to  flow 
from  all  the  wounds  which  these  years  of  struggle 
had  inflicted  on  him.  When  it  ceased,  he  felt  more 
calm  than  ever  before. 

It  was  possible  for  him  to  secure  some  books. 
With  the  thoroughness  which  the  quiet  and  solitude 
of  his  days  and  nights  forced  on  him,  he  studied  the 
investigations  of  the  great  political  economists  of 
his  country. 

The  picture  of  the  world  took  another  shape  before 


108  The  Anarchists. 

his  eyes,  the  more  reflective  he  grew.  Removed  as 
it  were  from  his  age,  no  longer  in  the  midst  of  the 
tumult  of  its  contentions,  he  gained  a  point  from 
which  he  could  survey  its  currents.  It  was  at  this 
time  that  he  came  back  to  himself. 

In  the  fall  of  1884  he  left  the  prison.  He  was  no 
longer  his  former  self.  It  was  difficult  for  him  to 
find  his  way.  His  powers  had  lost  their  elasticity. 
He  was  joyfully  welcomed  back  by  his  comrades. 
Trupp  was  in  London.  They  assisted  him  according 
to  their  means.  But  it  was  no  longer  the  same. 
His  faith  had  been  shaken.  He  thirsted  to  fathom 
the  truths  of  political  economy.  He  wished  to  know 
what  promises  it  held  out.  This  was  the  most 
important  thing  to  him  now.  He  knew  that  he 
could  not  learn  it  from  the  passionate  discussions  of 
the  meetings,  nor  from  the  newspaper  articles  deal- 
ing in  commonplaces,  nor  fiom  the  flood  of  pamphlets 
brought  to  the  surface  by  the  movement. 

Paris  became  unendurable  to  him.  Everywhere  he 
looked  into  the  mirror  of  the  follies  of  his  youth.  He 
was  repelled,  disgusted  by  the  frivolous,  noisy,  boast- 
ing life.  He  longed  after  some  great,  free  silence. 

The  only  thing  that  offered  itself  was  a  position  in 
a  large  publishing  house  in  London,  where  he  could 
be  employed  in  the  publication  of  a  comprehensive 
work  of  French  compilations.  He  decided  quickly. 

But  he  did  not  go  alone.  He  took  with  him  a 
girl  whom  he  had  learned  to  know  before  his  arrest, 
and  who  had  remained  true  to  him  during  all  that 
long  time. 

The  year  which  Auban  passed  with  her  was  the 
happiest  of  his  life.  But  the  frail  flame  of  this  brief 
happiness  was  extinguished  when  the  dying  mother 
gave  him  a  still-born  child. 

The  whole  character  of  this  simple  woman  whose 
judgment  was  as  natural  as  it  was  keen  was  brought 
out  by  her  reply  to  a  Communist,  who  in  a  tone  of 
bitter  reproach  once  asked  her :  — 


Carrard  Auban.  109 

"Did  you  ever  contribute  anything  to  the  happi- 
ness of  mankind?" 

"Yes,  I  have  myself  been  happy!  "  she  replied. 

When  Auban  had  lost  her,  he  grew  still  more 
serious  and  settled.  More  and  more  did  he  begin 
to  hate  and  to  fear  the  dreams  of  idealistic  inexperi- 
ence. He  rejected  them  with  a  caustic,  analysis, 
often  with  a  bitter  scorn.  Therefore  he  was  now 
being  attacked  by  parties  who  had  formerly  greeted 
him  with  joy.  He  saw  in  this  nothing  but  a  gain. 
He  now  became  what  he  had  never  been :  sceptical. 
If  he  had  formerly  exaggerated  the  party  dissensions 
of  the  day,  he  was  now  —  when  he  no  longer  could 
take  seriously  the  political  farce  —  inclined  to  under- 
rate them. 

Since  he  came  to  London,  he  had  taken  up  in  his 
free  hours  the  study  of  the  latest  daughter  of  science, 
—  political  economy,  that  sober,  serious,  severe  study 
which  exacts  so  much  of  the  head,  so  little  of  the 
heart.  It  compelled  him  to  dispel  the  legion  of 
vague  wishes;  it  compelled  him  to  think  logically; 
and  it  compelled  him  to  scrutinize  words  as  to  their 
value  and  meaning. 

It  was  Proudhon  who  first  attracted  him  power- 
fully, that  gigantic  man  whose  untiring  investi- 
gations encompass  all  domains  of  human  thought; 
Proudhon,  whose  impassioned,  glowing  dialectics 
seems  so  often  to  go  astray  in  the  obscure  mazes  of 
contradiction  where  only  the  spirit  enthroned  above 
all  parties  can  follow  the  master  exclusively  bent  on 
seeking  the  complete  liberty  of  the  individual; 
Proudhon,  the  "father  of  Anarchy,"  to  whom  ever 
and  ever  all  mast  go  back  who  would  lay  bare  the 
roots  of  the  new  creed  of  no  authority. 

"  Property  is  robbery !  "  That  is  all  most  Social- 
ists know  about  Proudhon.  But  the  scales  were 
falling  from  Auban's  eyes. 

He  now  saw  what  it  was  that  Proudhon  had  meant 
by  property:  -not  the  product  of  labor,  which  he  had 


110  The  Anarchists. 

always  defended  against  Communism,  but  the  legal 
privileges  of  that  product  as  they  weigh  upon  labor 
in  the  forms  of  usury,  principally  as  interest  and 
rent,  and  obstruct  its  free  circulation;  that  with 
Proudhon  equality  was  nothing  but  equality  of  rights, 
and  fraternity  not  self-sacrifice,  but  prudent  recog- 
nition of  one's  own  interests  in  the  light  of  mutual- 
ism ;  that  he  championed  voluntary  association  for  a 
definite  purpose  in  opposition  to  the  compulsory 
association  of  the  State,  "  to  maintain  equality  in  the 
means  of  production  and  equivalence  in  exchange  " 
as  "the  only  possible,  the  only  just,  the  only  true 
form  of  society." 

Auban  now  saw  the  distinction  Proudhon  made 
between  possession  and  property. 

"Possession  is  a  right;  property  is  against  right." 
Your  labor  is  your  rightful  possession,  its  product 
your  capital ;  but  the  power  of  increase  of  this  capi- 
tal, the  monopoly  of  its  power  of  increase,  is  against 
right. 

"  La  proprie'te',  c'est  le  vol !  " 

Thus  he  recognized  the  true  causes  of  the  terrible 
differences  in  the  distribution  of  weapons  of  which 
nature  knows  nothing  when  it  places  us  on  the  battle- 
ground of  life;  how  it  happens  that  some  are  con- 
demned to  pass  a  life  of  trouble  and  toil  and 
hopelessness  within  the  limits  unalterably  fixed  by 
the  "  iron  law  of  wages, "  while  the  others,  removed 
from  competition,  throw  out  playfully,  as  it  were, 
the  magnet  of  their  capital,  to  attract  whatever  of 
foreign  labor  products  fall  within  its  field,  and  so 
steadily  add  to  their  wealth,  —  all  that  he  now 
saw  clearly  under  the  light  of  this  examination. 

He  saw  that  the  minority  of  the  latter  were  in  a 
position,  by  the  aid  of  anciently  received  opinions, 
to  coerce  the  majority  into  a  recognition  of  their 
privileges.  He  saw  that  it  was  the  nature  of  the 
State  which  enabled  that  minority  to  keep  a  portion 
of  the  people  in  ignorance  concerning  their  interests, 


Carrard  Auban.  Ill 

and  to  prevent  by  force  the  others  who  had  recog- 
nized them  from  pursuing  them. 

He  saw  consequently  —  and  this  was  the  most 
important  and  incisive  perception  of  his  life,  which 
revolutionized  the  entire  world  of  his  opinions  — 
that  the  one  thing  needful  was,  not  to  champion  the 
creed  of  self-sacrifice  and  duty,  but  rather  egoism, 
the  perception  of  one's  own  interests! 

If  there  was  a  "solution  of  the  social  question," 
it  lay  here.  All  else  was  Utopia  or  slavery  in  some 
farm. 

So  he  grew  slowly  and  quietly  into  liberty:  during 
the  day  bound  in  the  slavery  of  his  toilsome  labor 
and  in  the  evening  in  the  company  of  the  woman  to 
whom  belonged  his  love.  Then,  when  he  had  lost 
her,  again  alone;  only  more  alone,  but  quieter  and 
stronger  than  ever.  .  .  . 

Trupp  was  and  remained  his  best  friend.  He  had 
more  and  more  learned  to  appreciate  the  earnestness, 
the  firmness,  and  the  instinctive  tenderness  of  that 
man.  Nevertheless  there  was  no  longer  any  real 
understanding  between  them.  Trupp  always  viewed 
men  from  the  standpoint  of  what  they  ought  to  be 
and  one  day  would  be;  but  Auban  had  penetrated 
the  nature  of  liberty  far  enough  to  know  how  little 
one  can  force  people  to  be  happy  who  do  not  wish  to 
be  happy. 

He  placed  all  his  hope  in  the  slow  progress  of 
reason;  Trupp,  all  in  the  revolution  which  would 
flood  the  world  with  the  light  of  liberty,  illuminat- 
ing all,  because  fulfilling  all  wishes.  Auban  had 
come  to  himself  and  wished  that  each  might  so  come 
to  himself;  Trupp  lost  himself  more  and  more  in  the 
generality  of  mankind.  Trupp  had  placed  himself 
in  the  service  of  his  cause  and  felt  as  belonging  to 
it  in  life  and  in  death ;  Auban  knew  that  liberty  does 
not  bind  one  to  anything. 

So  the  one  was  more  and  more  fired  to  a  life  of 
action,  like  a  horse  by  the  spurs  of  his  rider,  like  a 


112  The  Anarchists. 

soldier  by  the  "Forward!  "  cry  of  his  general,  while 
the  other  became  more  and  more  convinced  of  the 
significance  of  the  policy  which  awaits  the  approach 
of  the  enemy  to  repulse  his  attacks.  So  the  one  saw 
all  lasting  good  proceeding  only  from  a  bloody,  the 
other  only  from  a  bloodless,  conflict.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER   V. 

THE   CHAMPIONS   OF  LIBERTY. 

AUBAN  jumped  up. 

There  was  a  rap  at  the  door.  The  bar-boy  who 
came  every  Sunday  thrust  his  head  through  the  door: 
"Sir?"  He  might  call  again  in  half  an  hour. 

Auban  looked  at  his  watch.  He  had  again  been 
musing  away  a  whole  hour.  ...  It  was  almost  five 
o'clock.  It  was  already  getting  dark,  and  Auban 
lit  a  large  lamp  which  illuminated  the  whole  room 
from  the  mantlepiece.  Then  he  stirred  up  the  fire 
to  a  fresh  glow;  pushed  the  table  with  an  effort 
towards  the  window,  so  that  there  was  a  large  space 
before  the  fireplace ;  and  finally  placed  a  number  of 
chairs  round  the  latter  in  a  semicircle.  Now  there 
was  room  for  about  eight  or  nine  persons. 

He  surveyed  the  room  which,  now  that  the  cur- 
tains were  drawn,  warmed  by  the  blazing  fire  and 
illumined  by  the  mild  light,  gave  the  appearance 
almost  of  comfort. 


But  how  different  it  used  to  be :  in  the  two  small 
rooms  in  Holborn,  when  his  wife  was  still  living, — 
his  wife  who  knew  so  well  how  to  make  things  com- 
fortable for  everybody  in  the  Sunday  afternoon  hours : 
how  to  prevail  upon  the  most  timid  to  speak  his 
thoughts,  the  babbler  to  check  his  tongue,  the  bash- 
ful to  join  in  the  conversation,  the  phrasemonger  to 
think,  without  their  noticing  it. 

It  was  not  a  rare  thing  at  that  time  for  women  to 
attend  these  gatherings.  But  the  tone  had  always 

113 


114  The  Anarchists. 

remained  perfectly  natural  and  free  from  all  conven- 
tional constraint. 

Her  brief  illness  had  suddenly  interrupted  the 
gatherings;  her  death  left  the  greatest  gap  in  the 
circle.  Auban  could  not  give  up  the  idea  of  these 
afternoons  which  had  originated  with  her. 

They  again  came  to  him.  She  was  never  men- 
tioned, although  every  one  who  had  known  her  felt 
her  loss. 

How  many  had  come  and  gone  in  these  two 
years:  surely  a  hundred  persons!  They  were  all 
more  or  less  in  the  international  movement  of  Social- 
ism. Their  ideals  were  as  different  as  the  paths 
along  which  they  pursued  them. 

But  all  were  suffering  from  the  pressure  of  present 
conditions  and  longed  for  better  ones.  .  .  .  That 
was  the  only  bond  which  in  a  loose  way  united  them 
in  these  hours. 

Many  thought  ill  of  Auban  for  opening  his  doors 
to  so  many  different  characters.  Some  regarded  it 
even  as  disloyalty.  "To  whom?"  he  asked  them, 
smilingly.  "  I  own  no  bodily  or  spiritual  master  to 
whom  I  have  sworn  loyalty.  How  can  I  have  become 
disloyal?" 

So  the  political  talkers,  the  party  men,  and  the 
orthodox  fanatics  remained  away:  all  those  who 
fancied  they  could  enjoy  the  heaven  of  liberty  only 
after  their  ideal  of  liberty  had  become  the  ideal  of 
all. 

Again  and  again  the  few  came  —  Auban 's  personal 
friends  —  whom  the  experiences  of  their  lives  had 
taught  that  liberty  is  nothing  but  independence  of 
one  another:  the  possibility  for  each  of  being  free  in 
his  own  fashion. 

The  conversation  was  usually  carried  on  in  French. 
But  not  infrequently  also  in  English,  when  the  pres- 
ence of  English  friends  made  it  necessary. 

Of  late,  strangers  were  again  coming  and  going 
more  frequently.  Auban  asked  no  one  to  come 


The   Champions  of  Liberty.  115 

again;  but  everybody  felt  by  the  pressure  of  his 
hand  with  which  he  took  leave  that  he  would  be  just 
as  welcome  next  week. 

All  had  the  right  of  introducing  their  friends, 
which  they  sometimes  exercised  to  such  a  degree 
that  there  were  more  persons  than  chairs.  But  often, 
too,  Auban  was  alone  with  one  or  two  of  his  friends. 

It  was  mostly  some  issue  of  the  day  which  formed 
the  centre  of  the  common  conversation.  Or  a  dis- 
cussion arose,  separating  the  gathering  into  talkers 
and  listeners.  But  it  also  happened  that  small 
groups  were  formed,  when  two  or  three  different 
languages  filled  the  room. 

Once  a  man  came,  no  one  knew  whence,  who  some- 
time later  proved  to  be  a  decoy.  The  lust  of  ferret- 
ing out  some  conspiracy  had  led  him  to  this  place, 
too.  But  when  he  saw  that  there  was  no  talk  here 
about  dynamite,  about  bombs,  about  the  "black 
hand,"  executive  committees,  and  secret  societies, 
but  that  scientific  and  philosophical  questions  which 
he  did  not  understand  were  being  discussed,  he  dis- 
appeared as  he  had  come,  after  he  had  been  unspeak- 
ably bored  for  several  hours. 

A  similar  disappointment  awaited  several  youthful 
Hotspurs  who  imagined  that  the  throwing  of  a  bomb 
was  a  greater  deed  and  would  more  speedily  abolish 
all  social  misery  than  the  laborious  examination  into 
the  causes  of  this  misery.  The  contempt  with  which 
they  henceforth  spoke  of  this  "  philosophical  Anar- 
chism," which  was  entirely  fruitless  and  had  nothing 
in  the  least  to  do  with  the  liberation  of  starving 
humanity,  was  as  sovereign  as  it  was  easily  to  be 
explained. 

Auban  usually  held  aloof  from  the  discussions. 
But  he  did  not  like  to  see  them  depart  from  the  firm 
ground  of  reality  and  degenerate  into  a  useless  war 
of  words,  alike  without  end  and  aim. 

But  to-day  —  urged  by  his  friends  and  not  held 
back  by  his  own  feelings  —  he  wished  to  set  forth 


116  The  Anarchists. 

in  all  their  sharp  contrast  the  outlines  of  two  philos- 
ophies, whose  illogical  intermingling  had  produced 
a  night  of  contradiction  and  confusion.  .  .  . 

To-day  he  wished  to  destroy  the  last  misunder- 
standing about  himself  and  his  position,  and  thereby 
enter  upon  a  conflict  to  which  he  was  firmly  resolved 
for  a  long  time  to  devote  his  best  powers.  .  .  . 


He  was  just  looking,  somewhat  impatiently,  at  his 
watch,  when  he  heard  a  rap  at  the  door.  But  the 
visitor  was  an  entire  stranger  to  him.  He  was  a 
man  of  forty,  who  walked  up  to  him,  introduced 
himself,  and  handed  him  a  letter. 

Auban  ran  through  it  after  they  had  both  taken 
seats.  It  was  a  recommendation  of  the  bearer,  in  an 
easy,  bright  style,  and  it  came  from  a  man  with 
whom,  in  years  past  in  Paris,  Auban  had  often  stood 
on  the  same  platform  in  defence  of  the  rights  of 
labor,  but  who  was  now  on  the  editorial  staff  of  a 
great  opposition  paper  of  the  day,  and  much  feared 
on  account  of  his  predatory  pen. 

Half  excuse,  half  jest,  the  letter  toyed  back  and 
forth  between  unforgotten  memories  and  the  delight 
in  present  achievement.  ...  It  recommended  to 
the  good  will  of  Auban  a  friend  who  felt  himself 
attracted  by  the  study  of  the  social  movement  as 
"the  butterfly  by  the  flame,"  and  who  was  especially 
desirous  of  gaining  some  information  about  the 
obscure  region  of  Anarchism  during  his  short  stay 
in  London,  regarding  which  Auban  would  surely 
prove  a  better  guide  to  him  than  the  writer,  "who 
lived  too  much  in  the  charmed  circle  of  the  day,  to 
be  still  allured  by  a  forlorn  future.  ..."  Then  he 
felicitated  Auban  upon  his  publisher's  success,  jested 
once  more  over  their  common  follies,  which  "  experi- 
ence had  deprived  of  their  last  bloom,"  and  made  a 
ceremonious  bow. 

Auban  asked  a  few  questions,   to  enable  him  to 


The   Champions  of  Liberty.  117 

complete  the  picture  of  this  changed  man.  Then  in 
a  friendly  manner  he  said  that  he  was  ready  to  give 
any  information  which  might  be  desired  of  him.  He 
was  delighted  by  the  tones  of  his  mother-tongue ;  he 
was  secretly  delighted  by  this  visit  which  brought  an 
odor  of  Paris  into  his  room.  .  .  . 

This  stranger  was  sympathetic  to  him:  his  plain 
dress,  his  calm,  confident  manner,  his  serious  face. 

He  began  with  a  question. 

"  You  wish  me  to  explain  to  you  the  teachings  of 
Anarchism.  Would  you  first  tell  me  what  you  have 
hitherto  taken  Anarchy  to  mean  ?  " 

"Certainly.  But  I  confess  that  I  have  no  clear 
picture  of  it  before  me.  The  opposite  rather:  a 
bloody  and  smoking  chaos,  a  heap  of  ruins  of  all 
existing  things,  a  complete  loosening  and  severance 
of  all  ties  that  have  hitherto  bound  men  together: 
marriage,  the  family,  the  Church,  the  State,  unbridled 
men  and  women  no  longer  held  in  order  by  any 
authority,  and  mutually  devouring  each  other." 

Auban  smiled  at  this  description,  which  he  had 
heard  a  thousand  times. 

"That  is  indeed  the  picture  most  people  nowadays 
still  form  of  Anarchy,"  he  said. 

"It  is  represented  so  on  every  occasion  by  the 
press,  the  political  parties,  in  our  encyclopaedias,  by 
the  professional  teachers  of  political  economy,  by  all. 
However,  I  have  always  taken  it  for  the  conscious 
misrepresentation  of  enemies  and  for  the  uncon- 
scious, parrot-like  talk  of  the  masses." 

"You  were  right,"  said  Auban. 

"  But  I  further  confess  that  the  opposite  ideal, —  the 
simple,  peaceable,  undisturbed  community  life  of 
mankind,  where  each  constantly  sacrifices  voluntarily 
his  interests  in  favor  of  his  neighbor  and  the  general 
welfare, —  I  confess  that  such  an  ideal  of  a  'free 
society '  appears  to  me  wholly  incompatible  with  the 
real  nature  of  man." 

Auban  smiled  again:  "I  confess  the  same." 


118  The  Anarchists. 

The  other  was  surprised.  "What?"  he  said. 
"And  yet  this  is  the  ideal  of  Anarchy?" 

"No,"  answered  Auban;  "on  the  contrary,  it  is 
the  ideal  of  Communism." 

"But  —  both  have  one  aim." 

"  They  are  opposed  to  each  other  as  day  and  night, 
as  truth  and  illusion,  as  egoism  and  altruism,  as 
liberty  and  slavery." 

"But  all  Anarchists  of  whom  I  have  heard  are 
Communists  ?  " 

"No;  the  Communists  whom  you  know  call  them- 
selves Anarchists." 

"  Then  there  are  no  Anarchists  among  us  in  France, 
none  in  Europe?" 

"As  far  as  I  know,  none;  at  any  rate,  only  in 
small  numbers  here  and  there.  However,  every  con- 
sistent Individualist  is  an  Anarchist." 

"And  the  whole,  daily  changing  movement  of 
Anarchism  which  causes  so  much  talk  ?  " 

"Is  Anti-Individualistic,  and  therefore  Anti- 
Anarchistic;  is,  as  I  have  already  said,  purely 
Communistic." 

Auban  noticed  what  a  surprise  his  words  caused. 
The  former  had  wished  to  be  informed  by  him  con- 
cerning the  nature,  distance,  and  aim  of  a  road,  and 
now  he  had  shown  him  that  the  guide-board  on  the 
road  bore  a  false  inscription.  .  .  . 

He  saw  the  serious,  thoughtful  expression  in  the 
features  of  his  visitor,  and  was  now  convinced  that 
it  was  indeed  his  interest  in  the  solution  of  a  doubt- 
ful question  which  had  brought  him  here. 

There  was  a  short  pause,  during  which  he  quietly 
waited  until  the  other  had  completed  his  train  of 
thought  and  resumed  the  conversation. 


"  May  I  now  ask  you  to  tell  me  what  you  under- 
stand by  Anarchy  ?  " 

"  Gladly.     You  know  that  the  word  An-archy,  is 


The   Champions  of  Liberty.  119 

derived  from  the  Greek  language,  and  means,  in 
literal  rendering,  'no  authority.' 

"Now  the  condition  of  no  authority  is  identical 
with  the  condition  of  liberty:  if  I  have  no  master, 
I  am  free. 

"  Anarchy  is  consequently  liberty. 

"It  is  now  necessary  to  define  the  conception 
'liberty,'  and  I  must  say  that  it  is  impossible  for  me 
to  find  a  better  definition  than  this  one :  liberty  is 
the  absence  of  aggressive  force  or  coercion." 

He  stopped  a  moment  as  if  to  enable  his  listener 
to  carefully  note  each  one  of  his  slowly  and  clearly 
spoken  words.  Then  he  continued:  — 

"  Now,  the  State  is  organized  force.  As  force  con- 
stitutes its  essential  nature,  robbery  is  its  privilege ; 
so  the  robbery  of  some  for  the  benefit  of  others  is 
the  means  of  its  support. 

"The  Anarchist  sees  therefore  in  the  State  his 
greatest,  yes,  his  only,  enemy. 

"It  is  the  fundamental  condition  of  liberty  that 
no  one  shall  be  deprived  of  the  opportunity  of  secur- 
ing the  full  product  of  his  labor.  Economic  inde- 
pendence is  consequently  the  first  demand  of  Anar- 
chism: the  abolition  of  the  exploitation  of  man  by 
man.  That  exploitation  is  made  impossible :  by  the 
freedom  of  banking,  i.e.  liberty  in  the  matter  of  fur- 
nishing a  medium  of  exchange  free  from  the  legal 
burden  of  interest;  by  the  freedom  of  credit,  i.e.  the 
organization  of  credit  on  the  basis  of  the  principle  of 
mutualism,  of  economic  solidarity;  by  the  freedom  of 
home  and  foreign  trade,  i.e.  liberty  of  unhindered  ex- 
change of  values  from  hand  to  hand  as  from  land  to 
land;  the  freedom  of  land,  i.e.  liberty  in  the  occu- 
pation of  land  for  the  purpose  of  personal  use,  if  it 
is  not  already  occupied  by  others  for  the  same  pur- 
pose ;  or,  to  epitomize  all  these  demands :  the  exploi- 
tation of  man  by  man  is  made  impossible  by  the 
freedom  of  labor." 


120  The  Anarchists. 

Here  Auban  stopped,  and  there  was  again  a  pause. 

"It  seems  to  me  you  are  approaching  the  laissez- 
faire,  laissez-aller  of  the  champions  of  free  competi- 
tion." 

"The  reverse  is  true:  the  Manchester  men  are 
approaching  us.  But  they  are  far  behind  us.  How- 
ever, a  consistent  advance  along  the  lines  they  have 
chosen  must  unfailingly  lead  them  to  where  we  are 
standing.  They  claim  to  champion  free  competition. 
But  in  reality  they  champion  competition  only  among 
the  despoiled,  while  with  the  assistance  of  the  State 
they  remove  capital  from  competition,  monopolize  it. 
We,  on  the  other  hand,  wish  to  popularize  it,  to 
make  it  possible  for  every  one  to  become  a  capitalist, 
by  making  it  accessible  to  all  by  means  of  the  free- 
dom of  credit  and  by  forcing  it  to  enter  competition, 
like  all  other  products." 

"These  ideas  are  very  new." 

"  They  are  not  quite  so  new,  but  they  have  become 
so  again  to-day,  to-day  when  people  look  for  their 
deliverance  to  the  ruling  powers,  and  when  they 
refuse  to  understand  that  the  social  question  cannot 
be  solved  in  any  other  way  than  by  the  initiative  of 
the  individual  who  finally  resolves  to  assume  the 
administration  of  his  affairs  himself  instead  of  plac- 
ing it  in  the  hands  of  others." 

"  I  have  not  been  able  to  discern  the  full  meaning 
of  each  of  your  words;  but  if  I  understand  you 
rightly,  you  said  that  you  do  not  recognize  any  duty 
of  submission  to  the  will  of  another  or  any  right 
whatever  compelling  the  observance  of  a  foreign 
will?" 

"I  claim  the  right  of  free  control  over  my  person," 
replied  Auban,  emphatically.  "I  neither  demand 
nor  expect  of  the  community  a  bestowal  of  rights, 
and  I  consider  myself  under  no  obligations  to  it. 
Put  in  place  of  the  word  'community '  whatever 
you  wish:  'State,'  'society,'  'fatherland,'  'common- 
wealth,' 'mankind,'  —  it  is  all  the  same." 


The   Champions  of  Liberty.  121 

"You  are  daring!"  exclaimed  the  Frenchman; 
"you  deny  all  history." 

"I  deny  the  past,"  said  Auban.  "I  have  profited 
by  it.  Only  a  few  can  say  as  much.  I  deny  all 
human  institutions  which  are  founded  on  the  right 
of  force.  I  am  of  greater  importance  to  myself  than 
they  are  to  me !  " 

"But  they  are  stronger  than  you." 

"  Now.  Some  day  they  will  no  longer  be  so.  For 
in  what  does  their  power  consist?  In  the  folly  of 
the  blind." 

Auban  had  risen.  His  large  features  shone  with 
the  expression  of  a  free,  calm  pride. 

"  So  you  believe  in  the  progress  of  mankind  towards 
liberty?" 

"  I  do  not  believe  in  it.  Woe  unto  him  who  be- 
lieves! I  see  it.  I  see  it  as  I  daily  see  the 
sun."  . 


The  visitor  had  also  risen.  But  Auban  held  him 
back. 

"If  you  like  and  have  time,  stay  here.  I  expect 
some  friends  to-day,  as  usual  on  Sundays.  Especially 
to-day  the  conversation  will  turn  on  many  points 
that  may  interest  you." 

The  invitation  was  accepted  with  evident  pleasure. 

"It  would  indeed  not  be  agreeable  to  me  to  be 
obliged  to  rise  from  a  repast  of  which  I  have  hardly 
finished  the  first  course." 

Auban  again  inquired  about  Paris,  about  some  of 
the  celebrities  of  the  day,  about  many  things  that  the 
newspapers  did  not  tell  him. 

Then  came  the  guests.  First,  Dr.  Hurt,  an  Eng- 
lishman, a  physician,  who  had  treated  his  wife,  and 
who  had  since  become  a  regular  attendant  at  Auban's 
gatherings.  He  was  curt,  taciturn,  without  phrases, 
without  sentimentality,  a  character  whose  prominent 
features  a  keen  observer  could  easily  recognize:  an 


122  The  Anarchists. 

inflexible  will,  a  strong  tendency  to  ridicule,  and  an 
analytical  incredulity. 

Auban  valued  him  exceedingly.  Tbere  was  none 
among  his  friends  with  whom  he  liked  to  talk  so 
well  as  with  this  sceptical  Englishman,  whose 
courage  was  equal  to  his  logic. 

For  awhile  the  conversation  was  now  carried  on  in 
English,  which  the  Frenchman  understood.  The 
doctor  occupied  the  second  place  by  the  fire,  his 
favorite  place,  and  warmed  his  broad  back,  while  he 
cursed  that  London  where  the  fog  and  smoke  covered 
everything  with  a  sticky  crust  of  disease  germs.  .  .  . 

He  was  interrupted  by  Mr.  Marell,  the  American, 
who  was  accompanied  by  a  young  man  of  twenty, 
who  —  evidently  struggling  between  embarrassment 
and  curious  interest  —  shook  Auban's  hand  only  with 
diffident  reserve. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Marell?" 

"Well,  I  bring  you  a  young  student  of  social 
science,  a  German  poet;  I  think  you  have  already 
seen  him  at  the  meeting  of  protest  in  Finsbury  Hall; 
he  would  like  to  make  your  acquaintance." 

Auban  smiled.  Again  a  new  acquaintance.  Where 
and  how  the  old  man  made  them  was  a  puzzle  to  him. 
But  a  natural  goodness  of  heart  did  not  only  not  per- 
mit him  to  ever  deny  a  request ;  it  enabled  him  in 
kindly  sympathy  to  instantly  anticipate  it.  That 
may  have  been  the  case  here  too. 

Almost  always  travelling  between  England  and 
the  States,  he  was  on  both  sides  personally  acquainted 
with  nearly  everybody  connected  with  the  social 
movement,  and  nearly  everybody,  no  matter  what 
his  opinions,  knew  and  loved  him.  He  brought  most 
of  the  guests  to  Auban,  who  extended  a  cordial  wel- 
come to  all  alike. 

"That's  right,"  he  said,  as  usual;  "the  poets  have 
ever  been  the  friends  of  liberty,  and  the  German 
poets  above  all.  When  I  had  not  yet  quite  forgotten 
my  German,  I  used  to  read  Freiligrath's  splendid 


The   Champions  of  Liberty.  123 

poems  —  ah,  how  magnificent  they  are !  '  The  Revo- 
lution '  and  the  poem  of  the  'Dead  to  the  Living' — 
is  it  not  so?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  German,  with  eyes  beaming  with 
joy,  "and  the  'Battle  at  the  Birch  Tree.'  ' 

"They  are  a  strange  people,  those  Germans,"  said 
Dr.  Hurt,  "the  land  of  Individualism,  and  yet  that 
servile  cringing.  I  cannot  understand  how  an 
upright  man  can  live  there  among  those  obsequiously 
bent  necks." 

"  Well,  there  are  not  a  few  who  emigrate.  How 
many  come  even  to  America,"  the  Yankee  inter- 
rupted him. 

Again  the  door  opened. 

It  was  Trupp,  who,  serious  as  ever,  greeted  those 
present  with  a  nod;  a  Russian  Nihilist,  whose  name 
no  one  knew,  but  of  whose  work  in  the  propaganda 
his  comrades  talked  a  great  deal ;  and  finally,  a  fol- 
lower of  the  New  York  "Freiheit"  school,  whose 
visits  always  gave  Auban  special  pleasure,  notwith- 
standing that  on  many  questions  he  was  still  farther 
from  an  agreement  with  him  than  with  Trupp. 

Following  upon  their  heels  came  the  last  visitor 
for  the  afternoon, —  a  giant  in  stature,  whose  blonde 
hair  and  blue  eyes  at  once  betrayed  the  Norseman. 
He  was  a  Swede,  who  belonged  to  the  young  Social- 
Democratic  party  of  his  country,  but  who  inclined 
strongly  towards  Anarchism,  and  always  claimed 
that  there  was  but  one  difference  between  the  latter 
and  his  party,  a  difference  of  policy :  what  the  Social 
Democrats  sought  to  achieve  by  the  way  of  political 
reforms,  the  Anarchists  sought  to  accomplish  by 
force ;  and  as  the  former  course  seemed  too  long,  he 
was  inclined  to  choose  the  latter.  He  was  entirely 
what  is  usually  described  as  a  "sentimental  Socialist." 

They  formed  a  semicircle  round  the  fire.  The 
bar-boy  came,  and  went  from  one  to  the  other,  taking 
orders.  By  thus  relieving  himself  of  the  trouble 
and  care  of  furnishing  and  offering  refreshments, 


124  The  Anarchists. 

Auban  secured  to  each  the  liberty  of  individual 
choice.  The  comfortableness  of  his  guests  justified 
him. 

The  conversation  soon  grew  lively. 

Auban  avoided  the  ceremonious  introduction  of 
his  guests.  But  he  had  a  fine  way  of  indirectly  — 
in  the  course  of  the  conversation  —  making  one 
acquainted  with  another.  And  so  on  this  after- 
noon it  was  not  long  before  each  of  his  eight  guests 
knew  who  the  other  was,  if  he  had  not  already 
met  him  on  former  occasions.  They  did  not  all 
talk  with  each  other.  Dr.  Hurt  kept  perfectly  si- 
lent, but  listened  attentively.  Everybody  knew  these 
characteristics.  The  Russian  also  did  not  join  in. 
Thoughtfully  looking  before  him,  he  allowed  none 
of  the  words  spoken  in  the  room  to  escape  him, 
seeking  and  finding  behind  each  a  deeper  and  more 
special  meaning  than  was  intended.  It  was  the 
fourth  time  that  he  had  been  present;  and  he  had 
come  the  first  time  four  weeks  ago. 

But  the  kindliness  of  the  old  American,  whose 
serious  simplicity  never  changed,  and  Auban 's  calm 
unconcern,  never  allowed  a  feeling  of  uneasiness  to 
rise  or  the  conversation  to  flag. 

Most  of  them  smoked.  In  half  an  hour  the  room 
was  filled  with  smoke:  its  white  streaks  curled  like 
wreaths  round  those  heads  so  variously  shaped  by 
nature,  round  those  manly,  serious  brows,  and  then 
floated  away  towards  the  ceiling,  where  they  disap- 
peared. .  .  . 

After  a  pause,  and  after  the  glasses  had  been  filled 
again,  Auban,  who  was  sitting  between  his  French 
visitor  and  the  young  German  of  whom  the  American 
had  said  that  he  was  a  poet,  bent  forward  and  said 
in  French :  — 

"  Trupp  and  myself  would  like  to  ask  you,  gentle- 
men, the  favor  of  an  hour  for  a  discussion  of  the 
question :  What  is  Anarchism  ?  this  afternoon.  And 
not,  as  usual,  for  a  discussion  of  some  special  and 


The   Champions  of  Liberty.  125 

sharply  defined  question,  but  for  a  discussion  of  the 
fundamental  principles  of  Anarchism  itself.  For 
both  of  us  feel  that  such  an  interchange  of  opinions 
has  become  necessary." 

He  waited  to  see  if  the  meeting  would  assent  to 
his  proposition.  The  conversation  had  ceased.  They 
nodded  to  him,  and  he  continued:  — 

"'What?' — some  of  you  will  ask,  'what?  —  a  dis- 
cussion on  the  fundamental  principles  of  Anarchy? 
Why,  have  not  these  principles  been  established  long 
ago  and  so  placed  beyond  all  doubt  ?  ' 

"  Whereupon  I  answer,  No !  Notwithstanding  fifty 
years  have  almost  passed  since  the  word  'Anar- 
chism '  —  in  opposition  to  the  view  still  prevalent 
that  Anarchy  is  nothing  but  the  disorder  of  chaos 

—  was  for  the  first  time  employed  to  designate  a  state 
of  society;  notwithstanding  that  in  these  fifty  years 
Anarchism  has  in  all  civilized  countries  of  the  earth 
become  a  part  of  contemporary  history ;  notwithstand- 
ing it  has  already  laid  the  indestructible  foundation 
of  its  own  history ;  notwithstanding  there  are  thou- 
sands of  persons  to-day  who  call  themselves  'Anar- 
chists '  (here  in  Europe  from  ten  to  twenty  thousand, 
and  in  America  probably  as  many  more);  notwith- 
standing all  that,  I  say  that  there  is  but  a  very  small 
number  of  individuals  who  have  thoroughly  mastered 
the  idea  of  Anarchism. 

"  I  will  say  right  here  who  these  few  in  my  opinion 
are.  They  are  the  thinkers  of  Individualism  who 
were  consistent  enough  to  apply  its  philosophy  to 
society.  They  are  —  in  the  most  intellectual  and 
cultured  city  of  the  American  continent,  in  Boston 

—  a   few  courageous,    strong,   and   thoughtful  men 
wholly  independent  of  all  the  current  movements  of 
the  age,  —  in  the  same  city  where  Anarchism  found 
its  first  and  till  now  only  organ.     They  are,  finally, 
scattered  in  all  directions,  the  disciples  of  Proudhon, 
to  whom  this  giant  is  not  dead,   even  if  Socialism 
in  ridiculous  conceit  fancies  it  has  buried  him.   .   .   ." 


126  The  Anarchists. 

"I  believe  you  may  add,"  said  Dr.  Hurt,  "that 
there  are  a  few  among  the  great  monopolists  of  capi- 
tal who  have  come  to  understand  what  it  is  that 
maintains  their  enormous  fortunes  and  enables  them 
to  steadily  increase,  and  who  have  therefore  not 
remained  wholly  ignorant  of  their  greatest  enemy." 

"So  we,  the  workingmen,  we  who  have  always 
honored  the  name  despite  all  persecutions,  we  are 
no  Anarchists?  What?"  began  Trupp,  excitedly. 

"  In  the  first  place,  the  question  of  Anarchism  is 
not  the  concern  of  a  single  class,  consequently  also 
not  of  the  laboring  class,  but  it  is  the  concern  of 
every  individual  who  values  his  personal  liberty. 
But  then,"  —  Auban  rose,  advanced  a  little  towards 
the  centre,  and  stretched  his  thin  figure,  while  he 
continued  in  a  louder  voice, —  "but  then  I  say  that 
you  —  those  whom  you  just  had  in  mind,  Otto,  when 
you  spoke  of  the  workingmen  —  are  indeed  no  Anar- 
chists. And  in  order  to  prove  that,  I  have  asked  you 
to-day  to  listen  to  me  for  a  half -hour." 


"Speak  first,"  said  Trupp,  apparently  calm.  "I 
v/ill  answer  you  after  you  are  through." 

Auban  continued. 

"I  can  say  that  I  have  always  wanted  only  one 
thing:  liberty.  Thus  I  came  to  the  threshold  of  so 
many  opinions ;  thus  I  also  came  into  the  movement 
of  Socialism.  Then  I  withdrew  from  everything, 
devoted  myself  to  entirely  new  investigations,  and  I 
feel  that  I  have  now  arrived  at  the  last  result  of  all 
study:  myself! 

"  I  no  longer  like  to  talk  to  many  people.  The  times 
are  past  when  the  words  came  readily  to  me  while 
thoughts  were  wanting,  and  I  no  longer  lay  claim  to 
this  privilege  of  youth,  women,  and  Communists. 
But  the  time  has  come  for  firmly  and  strongly  opposing 
those  foolish  attempts  at  uniting  principles  in  theory 
which  are  practically  as  different  as  day  and  night. 


The   Champions  of  Liberty.  127 

"We  must  choose  sides:  here  or  there.  For  the 
one,  and  thereby  against  the  other.  For  or  against 
liberty ! 

"  Better  honest  enemies  than  dishonest  friends !  " 

The  decided  tone  of  these  words  made  an  impres- 
sion on  all  present.  By  the  earnestness  with  which 
Auban  had  spoken  them  every  one  felt  that  a  crisis 
was  at  hand. 

Everyone,  therefore,  manifested  the  deepest  inter- 
est in  Auban's  further  remarks,  and  gave  his  undi- 
vided attention  to  the  discussion  which  followed 
between  him  and  Trupp,  only  occasionally  offering 
a  suggestion  or  asking  a  question. 

Word  after  word  fell  from  Auban's  lips  without 
any  sign  of  emotion.  He  spoke  with  unvarying 
precision  that  allowed  of  no  misapprehension,  but 
emphasized  more  strongly  one  or  the  other  of  his 
arguments,  the  fundamental  axioms  of  a  relentless 
philosophy. 

Trupp  spoke  with  the  whole  warmth  of  a  heart 
thirsting  for  justice.  Where  his  reason  came  to  an 
obstacle,  he  raised  himself  above  it  on  the  wings  of 
his  imperturbable  hope. 

French  was  spoken  to-day.  There  was  none 
among  them  who  did  not  understand  that  language. 

Auban  began  again,  and  he  enunciated  each  of  his 
well-considered  words  so  slowly  that  it  seemed  almost 
as  if  he  read  them  or  had  learned  them  by  heart. 


"I  maintain,"  he  began,  "that  a  great  split  has 
arisen  in  the  social  movement  of  the  present  day,  and 
that  it  is  perceptibly  growing  larger  from  day  to  day. 

"The  new  idea  of  Anarchism  has  separated  itself 
from  the  old  one  of  Socialism.  The  professors  of  the 
one  and  the  followers  of  the  other  are  concentrating 
themselves  in  two  great  camps. 

"As  I  have  said,  we  are  face  to  face  with  the 
alternative  of  making  a  choice  one  way  or  the  other. 


128  The  Anarchists. 

"  Let  us  do  this  to-day.     Let  us  see  what  Socialism 
wants,  and  let  us  see  what  Anarchism  wants. 


"  What  does  Socialism  want  ? 

"I  have  found  that  it  is  very  difficult  to  offer  a 
satisfactory  answer  to  this  question.  For  ten  years 
I  have  been  watching  the  movement  in  each  of  its 
phases,  and  I  have  learned  to  know  it  in  two  coun- 
tries by  personal  experience.  I  have  followed  its 
rise  and  growth  in  the  history  of  the  present  century, 
but  to  this  hour  I  have  not  succeeded  in  forming  a 
clear  picture  of  its  aims.  Otherwise  I  should  per- 
haps still  be  a  follower  of  it. 

"Wherever  I  inquired  after  its  ultimate  aims,  I 
received  two  answers. 

"The  one  was:  'It  would  be  ridiculous  to  already 
outline  the  picture  of  a  future  which  we  are  only 
preparing.  We  leave  its  formation  to  our  descend- 
ants.' 

"The  other  was  less  reserved.  It  changed  men 
into  angels,  pictured  with  enviable  rapidity  an  Eden 
of  happiness,  peace,  and  liberty,  and  called  that 
heaven  on  earth  the  'future  society.' 

"  The  first  answer  was  made  by  the  Collectivists, 
the  Social  Democrats,  the  State  Communists;  the 
second,  by  the  'free  Communists,'  who  call  them- 
selves Anarchists,  and  those  genuinely  Christian 
dreamers  who  belong  to  none  of  the  social  parties  of 
the  present,  but  whose  number  is  much  larger  than 
is  commonly  believed.  Most  religious  fanatics  and 
philanthropists,  for  instance,  belong  to  them. 

"In  this  brief  presentation,  which  will  strictly 
keep  inside  the  limits  of  reality  and  deal  with 
men  only  as  they  are,  have  always  been,  and  will 
always  be,  I  must  entirely  ignore  the  last-mentioned 
classes.  For  the  former  of  these,  the  free  or  revolu- 
tionary Communists,  would  never  have  received  any 
attention  in  the  social  movement  —  notwithstand- 


The   Champions  of  Liberty.  129 

isg  almost  every  decade  of  the  present  century 
witnessed  their  rise,  growth,  and  disappearance: 
from  Baboeuf  and  Cabet,  via  the  tailor  Weitling  and 
the  German-Swiss  Communistic  movement  of  the 
forties,  to  Bakounine  —  had  they  not  championed  a 
policy  whose  occasional  application  during  the  past 
twelve  years  has  made  of  the  name  'Anarchist,' 
falsely  assumed  by  them,  in  the  minds  of  the  mentally 
blind  (and  these  still  constitute  about  nine-tenths 
of  all  mankind)  a  synonym  for  robbers  and  murderers ; 
and  the  latter,  the  philanthropical  Utopians  —  well, 
there  have  always  been  such,  and  we  shall  presum- 
ably have  them  with  us  as  long  as  governments  shall 
create  misery  and  poverty  by  force. 

"Ignoring,  therefore,  all  purely  ideal  Socialists 
and  their  Utopian  wishes,  and  concentrating  my 
attention  on  the  aspirations  of  the  first-mentioned 
classes,  which  are  the  only  tangible  ones,  I  answer 
the  question:  What  does  Socialism  want? — in  their 
spirit  and  by  their  own  words  thus :  — 

"  Socialism  wants  the  socialization  of  all  the  means 
of  production,  and  the  societarian,  systematic  regu- 
lation of  production  in  the  interests  of  the  com- 
munity. 

"  This  socialization  and  regulation  must  proceed  in 
accordance  with  the  will  of  the  absolute  majority 
and  through  the  persons  of  the  representatives 
elected  and  designated  by  it. 

"  So  reads  the  first  and  most  important  demand  of 
the  Socialists  of  all  countries,  so  far  as  they  keep 
within  the  limits  of  reality  and  deal  with  the  given 
conditions. 

"  It  is  of  course  impossible  to  treat  here  in  detail : 

"  First,  of  the  possibility  of  the  realization  of  these 
principles,  which  is  indeed  conceivable  only  by  the 
aid  of  an  unexampled  terrorism  and  the  most  brutal 
compulsion  of  the  individual,  but  in  which  I  do  not 
believe ;  and  second,  of  the  consequences,  in  no  man- 
ner to  be  estimated,  which  an  unlimited  —  even  if 


130  The  Anarchists. 

only  temporary  —  dictatorship  of  the  majority  would 
entail  upon  the  progress  of  civilization.  .  .  . 

"And  why  should  I?  I  need  only  point  to  the 
present  conditions  from  which  we  are  all  suffering: 
to  the  privileges,  forcibly  created  and  maintained  by 
the  State,  with  which  it  invests  capital  in  the  form 
of  interest,  and  land  in  the  form  of  rent,  on  the  one 
side,  and  to  the  useless  internecine  struggle  of  the 
labor  dependent  on  that  capital,  the  struggle  in 
which  labor  irretrievably  devours  itself,  on  the  other ; 
I  need  only  point  to  these  abominable  conditions,  to 
give  all  thinking  people  an  idea  of  how  completely 
null  and  void  must  become  economic,  and  conse- 
quently all  personal,  liberty,  after  these  separate 
monopolies  shall  have  become  consolidated  in  the 
one,  comprehensive,  absolute  monopoly  of  the  com- 
munity which  is  to-day  called  the  State  and  to-mor- 
row the  collectivity. 

"  I  say  only  so  much :  — 

"  The  forcible  exploitation  of  the  majority  by  the 
minority  to-day  would  become  a  forcible  exploitation, 
no  more  justifiable,  of  the  minority  by  the  majority 
to-morrow. 

"To-day:  Oppression  of  the  weak  by  the  strong. 
To-morrow:  Oppression  of  the  strong  by  the  weak. 

"In  both  cases:  Privileged  power  which  does  as  it 
pleases. 

"The  best  that  Socialism  might  achieve  would 
consequently  constitute  only  a  change  of  rulers. 


"  Here  I  put  my  second  question :  — 

"What  does  Anarchism  want? 

"And  starting  from  what  has  been  said,  I  an- 
swer :  — 

"  Anarchism  wants  the  absence  of  all  government 
which  —  even  if  it  abolishes  'class  rule  '  -  —  inevitably 
separates  mankind  into  the  two  great  classes  of  ex- 
ploiters and  exploited. 


The   Champions  of  Liberty.  131 

"All  government  is  based  on  force.  But  wher- 
ever there  is  force  there  is  injustice. 

"Liberty  alone  is  just:  the  absence  of  all  force 
and  all  coercion.  Equality  of  opportunities  for  all 
constitutes  its  basis. 

"On  this  basis  of  equal  opportunities,  the  free, 
independent,  sovereign  individual  whose  only  claim 
on  society  is  that  it  shall  respect  his  liberty,  and 
whose  only  self-given  law  consists  in  respecting  the 
liberty  of  others,  —  that  is  the  ideal  of  Anarchy. 

"When  this  individual  awakes  to  life,  the  knell 
of  the  State  has  sounded :  society  takes  the  place  of 
government;  voluntary  associations  for  definite  pur- 
poses, the  place  of  the  State ;  free  contract,  the  place 
of  statute  law. 

"Free  competition,  the  war  of  'all  against  all,' 
begins.  The  artificially  created  conceptions  of 
strength  and  weakness  must  disappear  as  soon  as 
the  way  has  been  cleared  and  the  perception  of  the 
first  egoism  has  struggled  into  light  that  the  happi- 
ness of  the  one  is  that  of  the  other,  and  vice  versa. 

"  When  with  the  State  the  privileges  maintained 
by  it  have  become  powerless,  the  individual  will  be 
enabled  to  secure  the  full  product  of  his  labor,  and 
the  first  demand  of  Anarchism,  the  one  it  has  in 
common  with  Socialism,  will  be  fulfilled. 

"  When  shall  I  be  enabled  to  secure  the  full  prod- 
uct of  my  labor?"  Auban  interrupted  himself,  as 
he  caught  the  questioning  glance  of  the  Frenchman, 
and  continued :  — 

"  When  I  can  exchange  the  product  of  my  labor  at 
its  full  value  and  with  the  proceeds  buy  back  one  of 
equal  value,  instead  of  being  forced,  as  at  present,  to 
sell  my  labor  below  its  value,  i.e.  when  I  must  sub- 
mit to  being  robbed  of  a  portion  of  it  by  force." 

After  this  explanatory  clause,  Auban  again  took 
up  the  thread  of  his  address. 

"For  after  the  disappearance  of  force,  capital, 
unable  any  longer  to  levy  the  customary  tribute,  will 


132  The  Anarchists. 

find  itself  compelled  to  participate  in  the  struggle, 
i.e.  to  lend  itself  out  for  a  consideration  which  the 
competition  among  the  banks  themselves  in  the  busi- 
ness of  furnishing  mediums  of  exchange  will  force 
down  to  the  lowest  point,  just  as  it  will  make 
impossible  the  accumulation  of  new  capital  in  the 
hands  of  the  few. 

"  The  power  of  increase  of  capital  is  the  death  of 
labor :  the  vampire  that  sucks  its  blood.  When  it  is 
abolished,  labor  is  free. 

"  When  the  resources  of  nature  shall  no  longer  be 
obstructed  by  the  violent  arrangements  of  an  unnat- 
ural government  which  is  a  mockery  on  all  common 
sense,  and  which  under  the  pretence  of  the  care  of 
the  general  welfare,  purchases  the  mad  luxury  of  an 
insignificant  minority  at  the  cost  of  the  misery  of  an 
entire  population,  then  only  shall  we  see  how  bounti- 
ful she  is,  our  mother.  Then  will  the  welfare  of 
the  individual  in  truth  have  become  identical  with 
the  welfare  of  the  community,  but  instead  of  sacri- 
ficing himself  to  it,  he  will  have  subjected  it  to 
himself. 

"For  it  is  this  and  nothing  else  that  Anarchism 
wants:  the  removal  of  all  artificial  obstructions 
which  past  centuries  have  piled  up  between  man  and 
his  liberty,  between  man  and  his  intercourse  with 
his  fellow-men,  always  and  everywhere  in  the  forms 
of  Communism,  and  always  and  everywhere  on  the 
basis  of  that  colossal  lie,  designed  by  some  in 
shrewd  and  yet  so  stupid  self-infatuation,  and 
accepted  by  others  in  equally  stupid  self-abasement : 
that  the  individual  does  not  live  for  himself,  but  for 
mankind!  .  .  . 

"  Trusting  in  the  power  of  reason,  which  has  begun 
to  clear  away  the  confusion  of  ideas,  I  calmly  look 
into  the  future.  Though  liberty  be  ever  so  distant, 
it  will  come.  It  is  the  necessity  towards  which, 
through  the  individual,  mankind  is  ever  moving. 

"  For  liberty  is  not  a  condition  of  rest ;  it  is  a  con- 


The   Champions  of  Liberty.  133 

dition  of  vigilance,  just  as  life  is  not  sleep,  but 
wakefulness  from  which  death  only  can  absolve  us. 

"  But  liberty  raises  its  last  claim  in  the  name  of 
Anarchism  by  demanding  the  sovereignty  of  the 
individual.  Under  this  name  it  will  fight  its  last 
battle  in  every  individual  who  revolts  against  the 
compulsion  of  his  person  by  the  Socialistic  world  that 
is  forming  to-day.  No  one  can  hold  aloof  from 
this  struggle;  each  must  take  a  position  for  or 
against.  .  .  . 

"  For  the  question  of  liberty  is  an  economic  ques- 
tion!" 

Auban's  words  had  long  ago  lost  their  deliberate 
judicial  tone.  He  had  spoken  his  last  sentences 
rapidly,  with  a  voice  full  of  emotion.  But  with  his 
hearers  the  effect  of  his  words  varied  with  the  indi- 
vidual. 

No  one  rose  to  reply  at  once. 

Then  Auban  added :  — 

"  I  have  taken  my  position  in  the  last  two  years, 
and  I  have  told  you  where  I  stand.  Whether  I  have 
made  myself  clear  and  whether  you  have  understood 
me  —  I  do  not  know.  But  I  do  know  that  my  place 
is  outside  all  current  movements.  Whom  I  am  seek- 
ing and  whom  I  shall  find  is,  the  individual ;  you  — 
and  you  —  and  you, — you  who  in  lonely  struggles 
have  come  to  the  same  perception.  We  shall  find 
each  other,  and  when  we  shall  have  become  strong 
enough,  the  hour  of  action  will  have  come  for  us 
also.  But  enough." 

He  ceased,  and  stepping  back,  took  his  old  seat. 


Several  minutes  passed,  during  which  various 
opinions  were  exchanged  in  low  voices  before  Trupp 
began  his  reply.  During  Auban's  address  he  had 
been  sitting  bent  forward,  his  chin  resting  on  his 
hand,  and  his  arm  on  his  knee,  and  had  not  allowed 
a  word  to  escape  him. 


134  The  Anarchists. 

He  spoke  tersely  and  as  one  convinced  of  what  he 
says,  after  he  had  once  more  surveyed  the  audience 
with  his  keen  eye. 


"  We  have  just  been  told  of  two  different  Anarch- 
isms, of  which  the  one,  we  are  assured,  is  none  at 
all.  I  know  but  one;  that  is  Communistic  Anar- 
chism, which  has  grown  among  workingmen  into  a 
party,  and  which  alone  is  known  in  'larger  circles,' 
as  we  say.  It  is  as  old,  yes,  older  than  the  present 
century:  Babosuf  already  preached  it.  Whether  a 
few  middle-class  liberals  have  invented  a  new  Anar- 
chism is  entirely  immaterial  to  me,  and  does  not  in- 
terest me  any  more  than  any  other  workingman.  As 
regards  Proudhon,  to  whom  comrade  Auban  again 
and  again  refers,  he  has  long  ago  been  disposed  of 
and  forgotten  even  in  France,  and  his  place  has 
everywhere  been  taken  by  the  revolutionary,  Com- 
munistic Anarchism  of  the  real  proletariat. 

"If  the  comrades  wish  to  know  what  this  Anar- 
chism wants,  which  has  risen  in  opposition  to  the  State 
Communists,  I  will  gladly  tell  them  in  a  few  words. 

"Above  all,  we  do  not  see  in  the  individual  a 
being  separate  from  society,  but  we  regard  him  as 
the  product  of  this  very  society  from  \vhich  he  derives 
all  he  is  and  has.  Consequently,  he  can  only  return, 
even  if  in  a  different  form,  what  in  the  first  place  he 
received  from  it. 

"For  this  reason,  too,  he  cannot  say:  this  and 
that  belong  to  me  alone.  There  can  be  no  private  prop- 
erty, but  everything  that  has  been  and  is  being  pro- 
duced is  social  property,  to  which  one  has  just  as 
much  right  as  another,  since  each  one's  share  in  the 
production  of  wealth  can  in  no  manner  be  determined. 
For  this  reason  we  proclaim  the  liberty  to  consume, 
i.e.  the  right  of  each  to  satisfy  his  wants  free  and 
unhindered. 

"  Consequently  we  are  Communists. 


The   Champions  of  Liberty.  135 

"  But,  on  the  other  hand,  we  are  also  Anarchists. 
For  we  want  a  system  of  society  where  each  member 
can  fully  realize  his  own  'self,'  i.e.  his  individual 
talents  and  abilities,  wishes,  and  needs.  Therefore 
we  say:  Down  with  all  government!  Down  with  it 
even  in  the  form  of  administration.  For  adminis- 
tration always  becomes  government.  We  likewise 
oppose  the  whole  swindle  of  the  suffrage  and  declare 
the  leaders  who  have  presumed  to  place  themselves 
at  the  head  of  the  workingmen  as  humbugs. 

"  As  Communists  we  say :  — 

"  To  each  according  to  his  needs ! 

"  And  as  Anarchists :  — 

"  From  each  according  to  his  powers. 

"If  Auban  says  such  an  ideal  is  impossible,  I 
answer  him  that  he  does  not  yet  know  the  working- 
men,  although  he  might  know  them,  for  he  has 
associated  with  them  long  enough.  The  workingmen 
are  not  such  sordid  egoists  as  the  bourgeois  —  after 
they  have  had  their  day  of  reckoning  with  them, 
after  the  last  revolution  has  been  fought,  they  will 
very  well  know  how  to  arrange  things. 

"  I  believe  that  after  the  expropriation  of  the  ex- 
ploiters and  the  confiscation  of  the  bank,  they  will 
place  everything  at  the  disposal  of  all.  The  deserted 
palaces  will  quickly  enough  find  occupants,  and  the 
well-stocked  warehouses  soon  enough  customers.  We 
need  not  cudgel  our  brains  about  that ! 

"  Then  when  each  one  shall  be  sufficiently  supplied 
with  food,  clothing,  and  shelter,  when  the  hungry 
shall  be  fed  and  the  naked  clothed,  —  for  there  is 
enough  for  all  for  the  present,  —  they  will  form 
groups;  will,  impelled  by  the  instinct  of  activity, 
produce  in  common  and  consume  according  to  needs. 

"The  individual  will  at  best  receive  more,  never 
less,  from  society  than  he  has  given  it.  For  what 
should  the  stronger  who  produces  more  than  he  can 
consume  do  with  the  excess  of  his  labor  except  give 
it  to  the  weaker? 


136  The  Anarchists. 

"  And  that  is  not  liberty  ?  They  will  not  ask  how- 
much  or  how  little  each  produces  and  each  consumes ; 
no,  each  will  carry  his  finished  work  to  the  ware- 
houses and  take  therefor  in  return  what  he  needs  for 
his  support.  According  to  the  principle  of  frater- 
nity  — 


Here  Trupp  was  interrupted  by  a  shout  of  laughter 
from  Dr.  Hurt.  A  general  commotion  arose.  Most 
of  them  did  not  know  what  to  think.  Auban  was 
angry. 

"  To  me  it  is  not  a  matter  for  mirth,  but  a  matter 
for  tears,  doctor,  when  men  rush  into  their  destruc- 
tion with  open  eyes,"  he  said. 

Trupp  rose.  Every  fibre  of  his  whole  solid  figure 
was  in  a  state  of  tension.  He  was  not  offended,  for 
he  did  not  feel  himself  attacked,  but  his  idea. 

"  With  people  like  you  we  shall  indeed  make  short 
work !  "  he  exclaimed. 

But  Dr.  Hurt,  who  had  suddenly  also  become 
serious,  entirely  ignored  these  words. 

"  Where  do  you  live  ?  "  he  asked  brusquely.  "  On 
the  earth  or  on  the  moon?  What  kind  of  people  do 
you  see  ?  Are  you  never  going  to  be  sensible  ?  " 

And  turning  away,  he  again  broke  out  in  laughter. 

"One  must  hear  such  things  in  order  to  believe 
them!  Two  thousand  years  after  Christ,  after  two 
thousand  years  of  the  saddest  experience  in  the  fol- 
lowing out  of  a  creed  which  has  caused  all  the  misery, 
still  the  same  nonsense,  in  the  same  unchanged 
form!"  he  exclaimed. 

At  one  blow  the  spirit  of  the  gathering  had 
changed.  In  the  place  of  calm  listeners  who  were 
recovering  themselves  from  their  astonishment  at 
this  interruption,  excited  participants  took  sides  for 
or  against. 

Trupp  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

The  success  of  his  words  with  the  majority  had 


The   Champions  of  Liberty.  137 

been  unmistakable.  Auban  saw  it  with  an  uneasy 
surprise :  what  he  himself  had  said  had  been  strange 
and  cold  reasoning  to  them.  They  longed  for  the 
perfection  of  happiness  —  Trupp  offered  it  to  them. 

Is  it  possible  ?     This  question  came  to  none. 

There  is  something  evil  about  hope,  thought 
Auban  and  Hurt,  and  their  thoughts  greeted  each 
other  silently  in  a  glance,  —  it  despises  reason,  which 
laboriously  indeed  and  only  gradually,  but  with 
unfailing  certainty,  removes  stone  after  stone  and 
story  after  story  from  the  giant  structure  of  illu- 
sion. .  .  . 

With  glistening  eyes  the  young  German  had  hung 
on  the  lips  of  Trupp.  Still  an  entire  stranger  to  the 
movement,  the  description  of  the  ideal  just  heard 
filled  him  with  enthusiasm.  O  surely,  here  was  all 
that  was  good,  noble,  true !  .  .  .  He  now  stretched 
out  his  hand  to  Trupp  and  said:  "Let  me  be  your 
comrade! " 

The  Russian  was  sitting  motionless.  Not  a  line 
of  his  gloomy,  youthful,  and  yet  so  manly  face 
changed.  The  workingman  who  had  come  with  him 
was  waiting  for  an  opportunity  to  speak. 

The  old  American  addressed  himself  to  Dr.  Hurt. 
He  was  trembling  with  deep  emotion. 

"Believe  me,  dear  sir,  Socialism  is  an  affair  of 
the  heart.  The  ethical  foundations  of  morality  — 

But  the  incorrigible  doctor  interrupted  him  also, 
without  respect  for  his  white  hair. 

"  I  know  nothing  about  the  foundations  of  ethics, 
sir.  I  am  a  materialist.  But  a  hard  and  bitter  life 
has  taught  me  that  the  question  of  my  liberty  is 
nothing  but  a  question  of  my  reckless  power,  and 
that  sentimentality  is  the  greatest  of  all  vices !  " 

The  excitement  was  perceptibly  increasing.  Talk- 
ing back  and  forth,  each  wished  to  give  expression  to 
the  surging  thoughts  within  him.  A  circle  had 
formed  round  Trupp,  composed  of  the  young  German 
who  wrote  social  poems,  Mr.  Marell,  the  American, 


138  The  Anarchists. 

the  Swede  who  had  trouble  with  the  foreign  lan- 
guage, and  Trupp's  German  comrade.  They  listened 
to  him  as  he  continued  to  picture  the  future  in  ever 
more  seductive  colors. 

Dr.  Hurt  and  the  Frenchman  were  again  speaking 
together. 

The  Russian  looked  at  Auban  as  if  he  wished  to 
fathom  him.  But  the  latter  thought  to  himself  as 
he  studied  those  eight  heads  in  their  restless  moving : 
What"  a  picture  for  a  painter ! 

The  gentle  profile  of  the  old  white-bearded  Ameri- 
can and  the  soft,  smooth  features  of  the  young  Ger- 
man .  .  .  the  pale,  gloomy  face  of  the  Russian,  his 
brow  overshadowed  by  his  shaggy  hair,  and  the 
bright  face  of  the  Frenchman  with  the  modern  half- 
beard  .  .  .  Dr.  Hurt's  narrow  head,  his  brow  pro- 
truding as  by  ceaseless  mental  labor,  the  head  of  a 
logician,  of  a  Roman  imperator,  and  the  hair-crowned 
head  of  the  Norseman,  with  the  childlike  blue  eyes 
and  their  confiding  expression,  which  did  not  change 
during  the  heated  discussion.  .  .  . 

What  a  difference  there  is  between  us  men!  he 
thought  further;  and  we  should  be  able  to  submit  to 
a  common  law  of  compulsion?  No;  liberty  now  and 
forever,  in  the  least  as  in  the  greatest.  .  .  . 

Prevailing  on  the  group  round  Trupp  to  resume 
their  former  places,  he  said  in  a  loud  voice :  — 

"  I  am  sorry  that  you  were  interrupted,  Otto. " 

But  Trupp  said  quickly :  — 

"I  had  said  what  I  had  to  say." 

"Well,  so  much  the  better.  But  shall  we  not 
attempt  to  bring  out  our  opinions  somewhat  more  in 
detail?  Let  us  look  more  closely  at  special  points." 

The  calm  attention  of  awhile  ago  soon  returned. 
But  it  was  now  forced,  not  natural  as  before.  Sev- 
eral persons  took  part  in  the  discussion. 


Auban  began  anew,  turned  towards  Trupp :  — 


The   Champions  of  Liberty.  139 

"I  will  attempt  to  prove  that  the  philosophies  of 
Communism  and  of  Anarchism  are  also  irreconcilably 
opposed  to  each  other  in  their  conclusions. 


"You  want  the  autonomy  of  the  individual,  his 
sovereignty,  and  the  right  of  self-determination.  You 
want  the  free  development  of  his  natural  stature. 
You  want  his  liberty.  We  agree  in  this  demand. 

"  But  you  have  formed  an  ideal  of  a  future  of  hap- 
piness which  corresponds  most  nearly  to  your  own 
inclinations,  wishes,  habits.  By  naming  it  'the  ideal 
of  humanity '  you  are  convinced  that  every  'real  and 
true  man '  must  be  just  as  happy  under  it  as  you. 
You  would  fain  make  your  ideal  the  ideal  of  all. 

"  I,  on  the  contrary,  want  the  liberty  which  will 
enable  each  to  live  according  to  his  ideal.  I  want 
to  be  let  alone,  I  want  to  be  spared  from  any  demands 
that  may  be  made  in  the  name  of  'the  ideal  of 
humanity. ' 

"  I  think  that  is  a  great  difference. 

"  I  deny  only.     You  build  anew. 

"I  am  purely  defensive.     But  you  are  aggressive. 

"  I  battle  exclusively  for  my  liberty.  You  battle 
for  what  you  call  the  liberty  of  others. 

"  Every  other  word  you  speak  is  abolition.  That 
means  forcible  destruction. 

"You  talk  about  the  abolition  of  religion.  You 
want  to  banish  its  priests,  extirpate  its  teachings, 
persecute  its  followers. 

"  I  trust  to  the  steadily  increasing  perception  which 
puts  knowledge  in  the  place  of  faith.  It  is  economic 
dependence  that  forces  most  people  nowadays  into 
recognizing  one  of  the  many  still  existing  churches, 
and  prevents  them  from  leaving  them. 

"  After  the  chains  of  labor  have  fallen,  the  churches 
will  of  themselves  become  deserted,  the  teachers  of 
a  delusive  faith  and  folly  will  no  longer  find  lis- 
teners, and  their  priests  will  be  forsaken. 


140  The  Anarchists. 

"  But  I  should  be  the  last  to  approve  of  the  crime 
against  the  liberty  of  individuals  which  would  by 
force  seek  to  prevent  a  man  from  adoring  God  as  the 
creator,  Christ  as  the  saviour,  the  pope  as  infallible, 
and  Vitzliputzli  as  the  devil,  so  long  as  he  did  not 
trouble  me  with  his  nonsense  and  demand  tribute 
from  me  in  the  name  of  his  infallible  faith." 

They  laughed:  perplexed,  amused,  irritated,  pity- 
ing such  weakness  in  dealing  with  the  enemy. 

But  Auban  continued  unconcerned,  for  he  was 
firmly  resolved,  now  he  had  begun,  to  say  the  best 
that  he  had  to  say. 

"You  want  free  love,  like  myself. 

"  But  what  do  you  understand  by  free  love  ? 

"  That  it  is  the  duty  of  every  woman  to  yield  to 
the  desire  of  every  man,  and  that  no  man  has  the 
right  to  withdraw  himself  from  the  desire  of  any 
woman ;  that  the  children  resulting  from  those  unions 
belong  to  human  society,  and  that  this  society  has 
the  duty  of  educating  them ;  that  the  separate  family, 
like  the  individual,  must  disappear  in  the  great  fam- 
ily of  humanity:  is  it  not  so? 

"I  shudder  when  I  think  of  the  possibility  that 
this  idea  might  ever  prevail. 

"No  one  hates  marriage  more  than  I.  But  it  is 
only  the  compulsion  of  marriage  which  induces  men 
and  women  to  sell  themselves  to  each  other,  which 
affects  and  obstructs  free  choice,  which  makes  diffi- 
cult, and  for  the  most  part  impossible,  a  separation, 
which  creates  a  state  of  misery  from  which  there  is 
no  deliverance  except  death,  —  it  is  only  this  com- 
pulsion of  marriage  that  I  loathe.  Never  should  I 
dare  raise  an  objection  to  the  free  union  of  two 
people  who  are  brought  together  by  their  free  choice 
and  whom  free  choice  keeps  together  for  life. 

"  But  just  as  well  as  the  free  union  of  two  persons 
do  I  understand  the  inclination  of  many  people  to 
change  in  the  object  of  their  love;  and  unions  for  a 
night,  for  a  spring  time  —  they  must  be  as  free  as  the 


The   Champions  of  Liberty.  141 

marriages  for  life,  which  alone  are  sanctioned  by 
public  opinion  to-day. 

"  The  commands  of  morality  appear  ridiculous  to 
me,  and  to  have  arisen  from  the  morbid  desires  of 
narrow  men  for  regulating  natural  relations. 

"  And  finally,  you  throw  overboard  private  property 
with  the  same  royal  ease  and  such  a  superficiality  of 
thought  as  we  find  only  in  Communism. 

"  You  say  the  State  must  fall  in  order  that  property 
shall  fall,  for  the  State  protects  it. 

"  I  say  the  State  must  fall  in  order  that  property 
may  exist,  for  the  State  suppresses  it. 

"  It  is  true  you  do  not  respect  property :  your  own 
property  you  do  not  respect;  otherwise  you  would  not 
allow  it  to  be  taken  from  you  day  after  day.  Expel 
illegitimate  property,  i.e.  that  which  is  not  really 
property,  but  alienism.  But  expel  it  by  becoming 
proprietors  yourselves.  That  is  the  only  way  in 
which  to  really  'abolish '  it,  the  only  reasonable  and 
just  way,  and  at  the  same  time  the  way  of  liberty. 

"  Down  with  the  State  in  order  that  labor  may  be 
free,  which  alone  creates  property!  So  I  exclaim 
also. 

"When  money  shall  be  freed  from  all  forcibly 
protected  privileges  — 

But  now  Trupp's  patience  was  at  an  end. 

"What?"  he  cried,  indignant,  "even  money  is  to 
remain,  wretched  money  which  has  corrupted,  de- 
based, and  enslaved  us  all  ?  " 

Auban  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  was  about  to 
become  vexed,  but  then  he  laughed. 

"Allow  me  a  counter-question.  Would  it  make 
you  indignant  to  be  an  employer  and  employee  at  the 
same  time  ?  A  receiver  and  a  payer  of  wages,  and, 
as  a  co-operator,  master  of  the  capital  instead  of  as 
at  present  only  its  slave  ?  I  think  not.  What  arouses 
our  indignation  is  only  the  fact  that  in  consequence 
of  forcible  robbery  it  is  possible  at  present  to  get 
something  without  work." 


142  The  Anarchists. 

"  But  what,  according  to  your  opinion,  is  to  deter- 
mine the  value  of  labor?" 

"Its  utility  in  free  competition,  which  will  deter- 
mine its  value  of  itself.  All  fixing  of  value  by 
authority  is  unjust  and  nonsensical.  But  I  know 
very  well  that  Communism  solves  this  question,  too, 
without  much  trouble:  it  simply  lumps  everything." 

"But  free  competition  prevails  to-day!"  cried 
Trupp. 

"  No ;  we  have  the  competition  of  labor,  but  not  in 
the  same  way  the  competition  of  capital.  I  repeat : 
You  see  the  pernicious  effects  of  that  one-sided  com- 
petition and  of  property  forcibly  invested  with 
privileges,  and  you  exclaim:  'Down  with  private 
property ! '  You  do  not  see  that  it  is  this  very  prop- 
erty which  makes  us  independent,  and  you  do  not 
see  that  it  is  therefore  only  necessary  to  remove  the 
obstacles  in  the  way  of  acquiring  it  in  order  to 
abolish  the  false  relation  of  masters  and  servants. 
Believe  me,  the  organization  of  free  credit,  i.e.  the 
possibility  of  each  coming  into  possession  of  the 
means  of  production  —  this  bloodless,  thorough-going 
and  greatest  of  all  revolutions  —  will  be  followed  by 
a  change  of  all  the  conditions  of  life  which  no  one 
can  adequately  picture  to  himself  to-day." 

He  stopped  and  saw  how  coolly  his  words  were 
received.  Only  Dr.  Hurt  sat  collected,  logically 
examining  word  after  word,  calculating.  To  the 
majority  a  revolution  was  only  a  chaos  of  corpses 
and  ruins,  and  they  shook  their  heads  at  Auban's 
words.  Therefore  he  tried  to  make  his  meaning 
clearer. 

"  Do  you  know  what  effect  the  abolition  of  interest, 
and  thereby  of  usury,  would  have  ?  A  steady  demand 
for  human  lal>or;  the  equilibration  of  supply  and 
demand ;  the  reduction  of  prices  to  the  lowest  point, 
and  consequently  an  enormous  increase  of  consump- 
tion; the  exact  exchange  of  equivalents,  and  conse- 
quently the  most  equitable  distribution  of  wealth 


The,   Champions  of  Liberty.  143 

possible.  But  as  a  result  of  this  great  economic 
revolution,  the  country  as  well  as  the  individual 
growing  more  prosperous  daily."  .  .  . 

Trupp  laughed,  indignant  and  irritated. 

"A  fine  revolution!  And  you  want  to  make  us 
workingmen  believe  in  these  crack-brained  fancies? 
Did  I  not  see  you  before  me,  I  should  think  I  was 
listening  to  a  bourgeois  economist.  No,  dear  friend, 
the  revolution  that  we  shall  some  day  make  will 
reach  the  goal  more  quickly  than  all  your  economic 
evolutions !  We  will  make  shorter  work :  come  and 
take  back  what  has  been  stolen  from  us  by  open  force 
and  scientific  cunning!  " 

"  If  only  the  bourgeoisie  do  not  make  still  shorter 
work  of  you !  "  remarked  Dr.  Hurt.  "  Exempla  decent ! 
That  is:  Learn  from  history!  " 

That  was  his  answer  to  Trupp's  previous  threat, 
which  he  had  apparently  neglected. 

The  excitement  produced  by  these  words  subsided 
only  gradually.  They  saw  in  them  a  defence  of  the 
bourgeoisie,  and  showered  replies  to  them. 


The  German,  who  occupied  the  ground  of  the  New 
York  "  Freiheit "  and  the  "Pittsburg  Proclamation," 
and  who  was  a  member  of  the  "  Communistic  Work- 
ingmen's  Educational  Society,"  now  took  the  floor. 

"Nothing  has  so  far  been  said  of  the  real  Anar- 
chism which  was  in  existence  before  anything  was 
known  of  the  Boston  middle-class  liberalism  advocated 
by  Manchester  men  fifty  years  behind  their  times,  or 
of  the  eccentric  cavilling  of  the  'Autonomists'' 
he  aimed  at  Auban  and  Trupp  —  "  and  which  still 
has  the  most  numerous  following.  It  wants  the 
Communism  of  free  society  based  on  the  co-operative 
organization  of  production.  It  does  not  deny  the 
duty  of  labor,  for  it  declares:  No  rights  without 
duties.  It  demands,  moreover,  the  exchange  of 
equivalent  products  by  the  productive  associations 


144  The  Anarchists. 

themselves,  without  middle-men  and  profit-takers, 
and  that  the  communes  shall  regulate  all  public 
affairs  by  means  of  free  contract.  But  in  a  free 
society,  so  organized,  in  which  the  majority  will 
feel  very  comfortable,  the  State  will  be  useless." 

"  Then  you  grant  the  majority  the  right  of  estab- 
lishing its  will  by  force  ?  " 

"  Yes.  The  individual  must  give  way  before  the 
general  welfare,  for  that  is  higher." 


"  That  is  a  position,  one  of  the  two  which  I  have 
described.  You  are  on  the  road  to  Socialism." 

"A  fine  position  for  an  Anarchist!"  said  Trupp. 
"And  what  becomes  of  the  liberty  of  the  individ- 
ual? It  is  nothing  but  the  centralistic  Communism 
which  we  have  left  far  behind."  The  flame  of  dis- 
sension which  some  time  ago  had  broken  up  the  clubs 
and  led  to  the  founding  of  a  new  paper,  threatened 
to  blaze  forth  again.  "It  is  my  belief,  and  I  stand 
by  it,  that  in  the  coming  society  each  will  perform 
his  share  of  labor  voluntarily." 

The  Frenchman  now  asked  him  courteously:  — 

"  But  assuming  the  case  that  men  will  not  labor 
voluntarily  as  you  expect,  what  then  becomes  of  the 
right  to  satisfy  their  wants  ?  " 

"They  will.     Rely  on  it,"  was  Trupp's  answer. 

"I  think  it  is  better  not  to  rely  on  it." 

"You  don't  know  the  workingmen." 

"But  the  workingmen  become  bourgeois  as  soon 
as  they  acquire  property,  and  then  they  will  be  the 
first  to  oppose  the  expropriation  of  their  property. 
You  ignore  human  nature,  sir;  egoism  is  the  spring 
of  all  action.  Remove  that  spring,  and  the  machine 
of  progress  will  cease  to  operate.  The  world  would 
fall  into  ruins.  Civilization  would  have  reached  its 
end.  The  earth  would  become  a  stagnant  pool ;  but 
that  is  impossible  as  long  as  human  beings  inhabit  it." 

"  Why  do  you  not  take  the  initiative,  and  demon- 


The   Champions  of  Liberty.  145 

strate  the  possibility  of  realizing  your  theories  in 
practice?"  Trupp  was  further  asked. 

He  evaded  this  question  by  asking  it  himself.  It 
was  Auban  who  at  once  replied:  — 

"  Because  the  State  has  monopolized  the  circulat- 
ing medium,  and  would  prevent  us  by  force  from 
furnishing  one  ourselves.  Therefore,  our  attacks  are 
primarily  directed  against  the  State,  and  only  against 
the  State." 

The  discussion  between  Auban  and  Trupp  seemed 
to  have  come  to  an  end,  and  threatened  to  entirely 
break  up.  Then  Auban  made  a  last  attempt  to  force 
back  upon  the  ground  of  reality  what  vague  wishes 
had  raised  into  the  empty  spaces  of  phantasy. 


"One  last  question,  Otto,"  sounded  his  loud  and 
hard  voice,  —  "  only  this  one :  — 

"  Would  you,  in  the  system  of  society  which  you 
call  'free  Communism,'  prevent  individuals  from 
exchanging  their  labor  among  themselves  by  means 
of  their  own  medium  of  exchange?  And  further: 
Would  you  prevent  them  from  occupying  land  for 
the  purpose  of  personal  use  ?  " 

Trupp  faltered. 

Like  Auban,  everybody  was  anxious  to  hear  his 
answer. 

Auban's  question  was  not  to  be  escaped.  If  he 
answered  "Yes!"  he  admitted  that  society  had  the 
right  of  control  over  the  individual  and  threw  over- 
board the  autonomy  of  the  individual  which  he  had 
always  zealously  defended ;  if,  on  the  other  hand,  he 
answered  "  No !  "  he  admitted  the  right  of  private 
property  which  he  had  just  denied  so  emphatically. 

He  said,  therefore :  — 

"  You  view  everything  with  the  eyes  of  the  man 
of  to-day.  In  the  future  society,  where  everything 
will  be  at  the  free  disposal  of  all,  where  there  can  be 
no  trade  consequently  in  the  present  sense,  every 


146  The  Anarchists. 

member,  I  am  deeply  convinced,  will  voluntarily 
abandon  all  claim  to  sole  and  exclusive  occupation 
of  land." 

Auban  had  again  risen.  He  had  become  somewhat 
paler,  as  he  said :  — 

"  We  have  never  been  dishonest  towards  each  other, 
Otto.  Let  us  not  become  so  to-day.  You  know  as 
well  as  I  do  that  this  answer  is  an  evasion.  But  I 
will  not  let  go  of  you  now:  answer  my  question, 
and  answer  it  with  yes  or  no,  if  you  wish  me  ever 
again  to  discuss  a  question  with  you." 

Trupp  was  evidently  struggling  with  himself. 
Then  he  answered  —  and  it  \vas  a  look  at  his  com- 
rade who  had  just  attacked  him,  and  against  whom 
he  would  never  have  violated  the  principle  of  per- 
sonal liberty,  that  impelled  him  to  say :  — 

"In  Anarchy  any  number  of  men  must  have  the 
right  of  forming  a  voluntary  association,  and  so 
realizing  their  ideas  in  practice.  Nor  can  I  under- 
stand how  any  one  could  justly  be  driven  from  the 
land  and  house  which  he  uses  and  occupies."  .  •.  . 

"  Thus  I  hold  you  and  will  not  let  go  of  you !  " 
exclaimed  Auban.  "By  what  you  have  just  said 
you  have  placed  yourself  in  sharp  opposition  to  the 
fundamental  principles  of  Communism,  which  you 
have  hitherto  championed. 

"  You  have  admitted  private  property,  in  raw 
materials  and  in  land.  You  have  squarely  advocated 
the  right  to  the  product  of  labor.  That  is  Anarchy. 

"  The  phrase  —  everything  belongs  to  all  —  has 
disappeared,  destroj^ed  by  your  own  hands. 

"A  single  example  only,  to  avoid  all  further  mis- 
understanding :  I  own  a  piece  of  land.  I  capitalize 
its  product. 

"  The  Communist  says :  That  is  robbery  committed 
against  the  common  property. 

"  But  the  Anarchist  Trupp  —  for  the  first  time  now 
I  call  him  so  —  says :  No.  No  earthly  power  has 
any  other  right,-  except  that  of  force,  to  drive  me  from 


The  Champions  of  Liberty.  147 

my  possessions,  to  lessen  the  product  of  my  labor  by 
even  a  penny. 

"  I  close.     My  purpose  is  accomplished. 

"I  have  demonstrated  what  I  wished  to  demon- 
strate: that  there  can  be  no  reconciliation  between 
the  two  great  antagonisms  in  which  human  society 
moves,  between  Individualism  and  Altruism,  between 
Anarchism  and  Socialism,  between  liberty  and  au- 
thority. 

"I  had  claimed  that  all  attempts  at  uniting  the 
irreconcilable  must  leave  behind  the  solid  ground  of 
reality,  and  disappear  in  the  clouds  of  Utopian  ism, 
and  that  every  serious  man  must  declare  himself: 
for  Socialism,  and  thereby  for  force  and  against 
liberty,  or  for  Anarchism,  and  thereby  for  liberty 
and  against  force. 

"  After  Trupp  has  long  sought  to  evade  this  alter- 
native, I  have  compelled  him  by  my  last  question  to 
explain  himself.  I  might  repeat  the  experiment 
with  each  one  of  you.  It  is  infallible. 

"Trupp  has  decided  himself  for  liberty.  He,  is, 
indeed,  —  what  I  should  never  have  believed,  —  an 
Anarchist." 

Auban  ceased.     Trupp  added :  — 

"  But  we  will  practically  carry  out  the  principles  of 
Communism  in  Anarchy,  and  our  example  will  so 
thoroughly  convince  you  of  the  possibility  of  realiz- 
ing our  principles  that  you  will  accept  them  as  we 
do,  and  voluntarily  abandon  your  private  property." 

Auban  did  not  say  anything  in  response. 

He  knew  very  well  that  this  external  conciliation 
was  only  a  fresh  and  last  attempt  on  the  part  of  his 
friend  to  bridge  over  the  deep  chasm  that  had  long 
ago  separated  them  inwardly,  as  it  separated  the  new 
from  the  old,  and  assigned  them  outwardly  their 
respective  positions. 

"  Neither  I  nor  anybody  else  can  save  any  one  from 
his  own  doom,"  ...  he  thought  to  himself.  From 
this  time  forth  he  joined  in  the  conversation  only 


148  The  Anarchists. 

when  he  was  directly  asked.  It  grew  exceedingly 
lively. 

Never  had  they  remained  so  long  as  to-day.  It 
was  long  past  eight  o'clock,  and  still  no  one  thought 
of  leaving  except  Dr.  Hurt  and  the  Frenchman. 

When  the  doctor  took  leave  of  Auban,  he  said  in 
a  low  voice :  "  I  am  not  going  to  come  again  to  your 
Sundays,  dear  friend.  Anything  that  is  right.  But 
the  performances  that  I  am  asked  to  attend  must  not 
be  too  crazy.  Your  'comrade  '  jumped  with  both  feet 
straight  into  heaven.  That's  too  high  for  me." 

Saying  which  he  went,  and  Auban  looked  after 
him,  smiling.  The  Frenchman  also  rose,  once  more 
expressing  his  thanks.  But  Auban  said  deprecat- 
ing1! :~ 

"  We  have  only  driven  in  the  posts  and  erected  the 
bare  scaffolding.  But  it  was  impossible  to  do  more 
to-day." 

"  You  will  have  a  hard  battle  to  fight,  which  you 
might  make  easier  for  yourself  if  you  would  drop 
that  word  which  frightens  away  innumerable  persons 
who  are  otherwise  near  you,  yes,  who  entirely  agree 
with  you." 

"  The  word  Anarchy  describes  precisely  what  we 
want.  It  would  be  cowardly  and  imprudent  to  drop 
it  on  account  of  the  weaklings.  Whoever  is  not 
strong  enough  to  study  its  true  meaning  and  to 
understand  it,  he  is  not  strong  enough  either  to 
think  or  to  act  independently." 

"I  shall  return  to  Paris  in  a  few  days.  May  I 
convey  your  good  wishes  to  our  friend,  Monsieur 
Auban?" 

"  Yes.  Tell  him  he  is  a  poor  egoist,  because  he  has 
become  a  traitor  to  himself.  He  has  assumed  a  great 
responsibility.  But  the  true  egoist  dreads  every 
responsibility  except  that  for  his  own  person."  .  .  . 

The  stranger  took  his  leave  with  a  courteous  bow. 

"Who  was  that?"  asked  Trupp. 

Auban  mentioned  his  name. 


The   Champions  of  Liberty.  149 

"He  arrived  shortly  before  you  and  was  here 
to-day  for  the  first  and  the  last  time." 

"Then  you  do  not  know  him?"  Trupp  shook  his 
head  disapprovingly. 

"No,  nothing  more  about  him." 

"  You  should  have  told  me  that  at  once !  " 

But  Auban  replied  sharply: — • 

"We  have  no  secrets  here.  We  are  not  Free- 
masons. What  we  have  said  anybody  may  hear 
who  wishes !  " 

He  took  Dr.  Hurt's  vacant  seat  by  the  fire,  and 
held  his  head  in  his  hands.  All  spoke  now,  even 
the  Russian.  The  variously  pitched  voices  struck 
his  ear  as  from  a  distance.  .  .  . 

From  what  was  being  said  he  heard  of  Trupp's 
victory  and  of  his  own  defeat. 

Then  rose  the  enthusiastic  voice  of  the  Swede :  — 

"It  may  be  that  there  will  be  fewer  geniuses. 
That  is  no  misfortune.  There  will  be  more  talents. 
Each  will  be  a  hand  and  brain  worker  at  the  same 
time.  Capacities  will  be  distributed  instead  of  con- 
centrating themselves.  On  the  average,  they  will  be 
greater." 

"  And  a  thousand  donkeys  will  be  wiser  than  ten 
wise  men.  Why?  Because  they  are  a  thousand!" 
Auban  added  to  himself. 

They  had  forgotten  him.  While  he  had  been 
speaking,  the  cool  breath  of  reason  had  descended  on 
them.  Now  it  was  warm  again:  the  warmth  of  a 
future,  winterless,  paradiseanlife.  And  they  rivalled 
each  other  in  the  description  of  that  life ;  their  words 
intoxicated  them ;  they  forgot  where  they  were.  .  .  . 

Auban  continued  to  hear. 

They  ridiculed  the  eternal  question  of  their  oppo- 
nents :  who  would  do  the  dirty  and  disagreeable  work 
in  the  future  ?  There  would  be  enough  volunteers 
for  everything,  remarked  one;  and  another:  There 
would  no  longer  be  any  such  work  to  do ;  machines 
would  be  invented  for  everything. 


150  The  Anarchists. 

Never  had  Auban  been  more  strongly  convinced 
than  at  the  present  moment  that  most  people  are 
themselves  their  greatest  enemies,  and  never  had  he 
more  strongly  felt  that  the  authority  of  love  would 
prove  to  be  vastly  more  terrible  than  was  the  author- 
ity of  hate. 

He  was  striving  to  destroy  privilege.  But  these 
Communists  denied  with  the  excellences  also  all 
values,  even  the  value  of  labor.  His  warfare  was 
directed  against  men  and  what  they  had  established 
in  folly  and  ignorance  —  victory  was  inevitable;  but 
their  warfare  was  directed  against  nature  itself  — 
victory  was  forever  impossible ! 

The  chasm  went  deeper,  far  deeper  than  it  lay 
uncovered  before  him  to-day.  It  was  a  battle  between 
an  old  and  a  new  philosophy.  And  the  old  was 
Christianity  in  all  its  forms ! 

The  greatest  criminal  against  mankind  had  been  he 
who  had  pretended  to  love  it  most.  His  creed  of  self- 
sacrifice  —  it  had  produced  those  who  renounce :  the 
misery  that  was  now  clamoring  for  deliverance.  .  .  . 

God  must  fall  in  every  shape !  .  .  . 


They  remained  together  for  more  than  an  hour 
longer.  The  conversation  gradually  drifted  to  the 
events  of  the  day :  Chicago  and  serious  riots  in  Lon- 
don were  at  hand.  It  was  agreed  to  suspend  the 
meetings  at  Auban's  for  several  weeks. 

When  the  American  rose,  and  thereby  gave  the 
signal  for  a  general  breaking  up,  most  of  them  were 
surprised  to  see  how  late  it  was. 

Auban  shook  hands  with  each  one ;  that  of  Trupp 
he  held  a  moment  longer  than  usual,  with  a  firm 
pressure,  as  if  he  wished  to  say  once  more :  Choose ! 
choose !  For  he  had  indeed  a  high  opinion  of  him. 

The  young  German  was  evidently  not  satisfied 
with  Auban,  and  did  not  attempt  to  conceal  the  fact, 
either.  Auban  only  smiled  thereat.  Mr.  Marell 
was  the  more  friendly. 


The   Champions  of  Liberty.  151 

"Well,  Auban,"  he  said,  and  took  both  his  hands, 
"you  are  a  strange  man.  There  is  a  good  deal  of 
sense  in  everything  you  say ;  but  what  you  teach  is 
icy  and  cold,  icy  and  cold;  the  heart  gets  nothing." 

"  Oh,  no,  Mr.  Marell,  liberty  is  warm  like  the  sun. 
Cold  alone  are  the  walls  of  the  prison.  The  heart 
will  have  richer  treasures  to  bestow  when  it  no 
longer  beats  and  keeps  silent  in  conformity  with 
commands.  But  it  should  never  take  from  reason 
the  guidance  of  our  lives  — •  only  to-day  did  we  see 
again  how  incapable  it  is  of  following  reason  in  the 
domain  of  economics." 


Auban  was  alone.  He  opened  both  windows. 
While  the  smoke  fled  in  dense  clouds  from  the  room 
and  the  waiter  behind  him  removed  the  glasses,  he 
leaned  against  the  window-sill  and  looked  down 
upon  the  street.  Now  while  the  evening  air  was 
cooling  his  brow,  he  felt  how  warm  he  had  become, 
and  how  deeply  the  talk  had  affected  him. 

And  for  that  your  youth!  —  he  thought  to  himself. 
The  sacrifice  seemed  again,  as  so  often,  too  great  for 
the  perception  it  had  given  him.  Yes,  it  was  cool 
and  bitter,  this  perception,  as  the  American  had 
said.  But  had  it  not  been  like  a  refreshing  iron  bath 
after  the  enervating  half  life  of  faith  in  hope  without 
deeds? 

And  he  remembered  how  young  he  still  was,  and 
how  much  there  was  yet  before  him  to  do,  and  even 
if  his  work  should  prove  apparently  as  useless  as  the 
attempt  which  he  had  made  to-day  in  a  small  circle, 
—  nevertheless,  he  was  filled  by  a  great  power  and  a 
great  joy,  and,  re-entering  his  room,  he  said  aloud :  — 

"Yes,  for  this  perception  of  liberty  your  youth!" 

And  the  walls,  terrified  by  the  sudden  silence  after 
the  noise  of  the  discussion,  gave  back  his  words :  — 

"  Yes,  for  that  your  youth!  " 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  EMPIRE  OF   HUNGER. 

THE  East  End  of  London  is  the  hell  of  poverty. 
Like  an  enormous,  black,  motionless,  giant  kraken, 
the  poverty  of  London  lies  there  in  lurking  silence 
and  encircles  with  its  mighty  tentacles  the  life  and 
the  wealth  of  the  city  and  of  the  West  End :  those  on 
the  left  side  extending  over  the  Thames  and  embrac- 
ing the  entire  Embankment  on  the  other  side  — 
Rotherhithe,  Deptford,  Peckham,  Camberwell,  Lam- 
beth, the  other  London,  the  South  separated  by  the 
Thames ;  those  on  the  right  side  stealing  round  the 
northern  limits  of  the  city  in  thinner  threads.  They 
join  each  other  where  Battersea  runs  into  Chelsea 
and  Brompton  across  the  Thames.  .  .  . 

The  East  End  is  a  world  in  itself,  separated  from 
the  West  as  the  servant  is  separated  from  his  master. 
Now  and  then  one  hears  about  it,  but  only  as  of 
something  far  off,  somewhat  as  one  hears  about  a 
foreign  land  inhabited  by  other  people  with  other 
manners  and  customs.  .  .  . 

It  was  the  first  Saturday  in  November  on  which 
Auban  had  promised  to  visit  his  friend  Trupp.  He 
intended  to  go  with  the  latter  through  the  East  End 
and  then  to  the  club  of  Russian  revolutionists.  They 
had  chosen  Saturday,  because  there  is  no  work  in 
London  during  the  afternoon  of  that  day ;  because 
Auban's  business  and  Trupp's  factory  were  closed 
for  thirty-six  hours. 

Auban  left  his  business  about  one  o'clock  in  one  of 
the  side-streets  of  Fleet  Street.  The  hurry  and 

152 


The  Empire  of  Hunger.  153 

scurry  of  business  life  seemed  to  have  increased  ten- 
fold. He  could  hardly  make  his  way  to  Fleet  Street 
through  the  throng  of  carts,  heavily  laden  with  fresh- 
printed  paper  rolls  which  emitted  a  strange  odor  of 
dampness ;  of  truck-wagons  whose  cursing  drivers 
could  not  get  from  the  spot;  of  hurrying,  excited, 
jostling  crowds  of  clerks,  workingmen,  messenger- 
boys,  and  merchants.  To  save  time  he  decided  not 
to  go  home.  He  ate  in  one  of  the  nearest  over- 
crowded restaurants,  and  ran  through  the  latest 
papers.  Everywhere  the  unemployed.  .  .  .  Trafalgar 
Square :  police  attacks ;  the  assembled  dispersed  by 
force ;  new  arrests  on  account  of  incendiary  lan- 
guage. .  .  .  Shelterless  women  in  Hyde  Park :  sixteen 
nights  in  the  open  air ;  starved  and  frozen ;  some 
sent  to  the  hospital,  some  to  the  workhouse,  others 
die.  .  .  .  Preparations  for  the  murder  of  the  Chicago 
Anarchists :  as  there  are  not  enough  gallows,  it  has 
been  decided  to  hang  them  in  two  divisions,  first  four, 
then  three ;  extraordinary  measures  to  preserve  order ; 
petitions  for  pardon  by  the  condemned,  signed  by 
four  of  them  ;  the  governor  relentless.  .  .  .  Auban 
let  the  papers  drop. 

Here  it  was,  daily  and  hourly :  the  enormous 
debasement  of  life  which  makes  of  one  a  butcher,  of 
another  a  victim  !  The  one  like  the  other  overcome 
by  illusion.  .  .  .  And  nowhere  an  escape  for  either  ! 
Both  obeying  the  idol  of  duty  created  by  men.  And 
both  dominated  by  it,  in  life  and  in  death  !  .  .  . 

Auban  took  the  next  omnibus  going  to  Liverpool 
Street  Station.  He. sat  on  the  top.  As  he  passed 
the  statue  of  the  Queen  and  the  Prince  of  Wales, 
which  has  been  erected  in  the  place  of  the  obstruc- 
tive gate  of  Temple  Bar,  where  in  former,  darker 
ages,  the  bloody  heads  of  executed  criminals  were 
exhibited  before  the  people,  he  thought  of  the  slow 
ascent  of  struggling  and  climbing  humanity  from 
slavery.  How  grandly  it  would  some  day  develop  in 
liberty !  —  How  long  might  it  be  yet,  before  those 


154  The  Anarchists. 

sculptured  idols  would  be  overthrown,  the  crowns 
and  purple  robes  destroyed,  the  sceptres  broken,  the 
last  remains  of  medievalism  effaced !  .  .  . 

Then  must  be  fought  that  other  tyrant,  more 
blind:  "the  sovereign  people."  It  would  be  the 
age  of  dulness,  the  age  of  mediocrity,  of  dead-level- 
ism  in  the  strait-jacket  of  equality,  the  age  of  mutual 
control,  of  petty  quarrels  in  the  place  of  the  great 
struggles,  of  perpetual  annoyances  .  .  .  then  the 
fourth  estate  would  have  become  the  third,  the  class  of 
the  workingmen  "  promoted  "  to  the  class  of  the  bour- 
geois, and  the  former  would  then  exhibit  the  charac- 
teristics of  the  latter;  commonplaceness  of  thought, 
pharisaical  complacency  of  infallibility,  well-fed  vir- 
tue !  And  then  would  again  appear  the  genuine  insur- 
gents, great  and  strong,  hosts  of  them,  the  champions 
of  the  ego  threatened  in  every  movement.  .  .  . 


The  omnibus  moved  slowly  but  surely  down  Fleet 
Street.  At  Ludgate  Hill  there  was  an  enormous 
throng  of  people.  In  the  direction  of  Holborn  Via- 
duct, that  wonder  of  modern  street-engineering,  fogs 
were  rising ;  the  iron  bridge  of  Farringdon  Street  was 
already  enveloped  by  them.  In  the  opposite  direc- 
tion, where  the  Thames  rushes  along  beneath  Black- 
friars  Bridge,  it  was  clear.  As  the  horses,  stamping 
on  the  wet  wooden  pavement,  were  drawing  the 
packed  omnibus  under  the  railroad  bridge  of  the 
London,  Chatham  and  Dover  Road,  towards  St.  Paul's, 
the  throng  seemed  impenetrable.. 

But  St.  Paul's  rose  in  the  air  with  its  dark  masses, 
from  whose  black  background  the  white  marble  figure 
of  Queen  Anne  stood  out  in  relief.  .  .  .  The  heart 
of  the  city,  here  it  was  beating.  .  .  . 

Farther.  Past  the  gigantic  masses  which  in  their 
fixed  calm  seemed  to  belong  to  a  forgotten  past. 

A  black  stream  of  humanity  was  flowing  down 
Cheapside.  Finally  the  great  strong-box,  the  win- 


The  Empire  of  Hunger.  155 

dowless,  low,  lazy  building  of  the  Bank  came  in 
view.  It  was  already  closed.  Now  it  lay  there  as 
if  dead. 

Auban  was  again  seized  by  the  monstrous  life  that 
surrounded  him. 

The  countless  banks,  grouped  around  the  Bank  of 
England  like  children  about  their  foster-mother, 
were  closed.  Everybody  was  hastening  to  get  din- 
ner, reach  home,  enjoy  rest.  .  .  .  Thousands  and 
thousands  of  people,  exhausted  by  the  week's  toil, 
were  rushing  along  in  wild  confusion,  each  impelled 
by  the  wish  to  forget  for  a  few  hours  the  columns 
of  figures  which  constituted  his  life,  \vhich  filled  his 
brain  to  the  last  nook  and  corner. 

Young  clerks,  small*  messenger-boys  in  the  most 
various  uniforms,  careworn  book-keepers,  serious 
trades-people,  "solid",  business  men,  speculators, 
usurers,  great  money-kings  at  whose  feet  the  world 
worships,  —  who  would  dare  oppose  them?  —  all 
mingling  here  in  wild  chase,  in  mad  confusion,  appar- 
ently a  chaos  of  disorder,  but  really  issuing  in  the 
most  admirable  order. 

The  omnibus  stopped  here  for  some  time.  People 
got  off  and  on.  Crowds  thronged  after,  but  had  to 
remain  behind.  But  all  found  the  place  they  were 
looking  for  in  the  almost  endless  line  of  omnibuses, 
one  close  upon  the  other.  .  .  . 

From  his  seat  Auban  surveyed  the  sea  of  human- 
ity. He  followed  an  individual  here  and  there  with 
his  eyes ;  here,  a  young  merchant,  evidently  a  stranger, 
who  seemed  like  one  lost  in  the  swarm,  not  knowing 
which  way  to  turn ;  there,  an  elderly  gentleman  in  a 
tall  hat,  a  faultless,  simple  black  coat,  with  a  white 
beard,  and  an  expression  made  up  of  haughtiness  and 
prudence  which  seemed  to  say:  "I  am  the  world. 
I  bought  it.  It  is  mine.  —  What  do  you  want  ?  I 
keep  you  all  in  pay :  the  King  and  his  court,  the  gen- 
eral and  his  army,  the  savant  and  his  ideas,  and  all 
my  people  who  work  in  order  that  I  may  be.  For 


156  The  Anarchists. 

men  are  stupid.     But  I  am  wise,  and  I  understand 
them. 


Auban  turned  to  look  at  the  Bank  again,  There 
was  the  hiding-place  of  that  great  mystery  which 
held  all  happiness  and  all  unhappiness.  Inscrutable 
to  the  majority,  it  was  to  them  the  higher  power 
which  determines  their  fate.  With  awe,  with  admi- 
ration, with  speechless  astonishment,  they  heard  about 
the  immense  wealth  in  which  they  had  no  share. 
Whence  came  it  ?  They  did  not  know.  Where  did 
it  go  ?  Into  the  pockets  of  the  rich  ;  that  they  saw. 
But  what  brought  it  together  here  ?  What  gave  it 
the  mighty  power  to  shape  the  world  as  its  possessors 
saw  fit  ?  No ;  they  would  never  solve  it,  that  fright- 
ful riddle  of  their  own  wretchedness  and  the  happi- 
ness of  others.  There  lay  the  vampire  that  sucked 
their  last  drop  of  blood,  the  monster  that  drove  their 
wives  to  dishonor,  and  slowly  choked  their  children. 
And  they  passed  more  rapidly  by  the  dark  walls 
behind  which  lay  the  gold  that  had  been  their  own 
blood. 

When  they  were  told  that  the  country  in  which  they 
lived  was  burdened  with  a  national  debt  of  so  and 
so  many  millions,  and  that  each  of  them  was  in  part 
responsible  for  this  debt,  the  nonsense  of  it  left  them 
completely  indifferent ;  what  a  million  was  they  did 
not  know,  but  the  last  unpaid  room-rent  and  the  five 
shillings'  debt  in  the  meat-shop  weighed  heavily  upon 
them,  and  filled  them  with  fear  and  trembling  for 
the  following  day. 

Socialism  began  to  talk  to  many  of  them.  When 
it  told  them  that  nothing  in  the  world  had  ai^  value 
except  labor,  and  when  they  saw  that  those  who  did 
not  work  were  in  the  possession  of  all  values,  it  was 
no  longer  difficult  for  them  to  draw  the  simple  con- 
clusion that  it  must  have  been  their  labor  which  cre- 
ated the  possessions  of  the  former ;  in  other  words, 


The  Empire  of  Hunger.  157 

that  the  former  lived  by  their  labor,  robbed  them  of 
their  labor;  what  it  was  that  enabled  them  to  do  this 
was  again  an  impenetrable  mystery  to  most  of  them ; 
for  they  were  in  the  majority,  and  the  others  only  a 
few  against  their  masses  !  The  more  intelligent  ones 
suspected  that  probably  nothing  would  promise  help 
except  to  place  in  opposition  to  the  protective  and 
defensive  union  of  the  robbers  a  similar  union  of  the 
robbed.  So  they  became  Socialists. 

For  Auban  the  mystery  had  long  lost  its  terrors, 
the  sphinx  face  of  power  its  awfulness.  His  studies 
had  torn  veil  after  veil  from  the  hidden  picture,  and 
he  now  stood  eye  to  eye  with  the  doll  of  the  State 
deprived  of  the  tinsel  trappings  of  idealism.  The 
god  before  whom  all  worshipped,  what  was  he  but  a 
wooden  doll,  empty  and  hollow,  an  enormous  hum- 
bug, a  bugbear  ?  Wound  up  by  a  few  skilled  hands, 
automatic  movements  were  to  make  a  show  of  real  life  ! 

The  ignorance  of  the  deluded  masses  put  into  the 
stiff  figures  of  that  skeleton  the  terrible  weapons  of 
privilege.  This  bank,  the  greatest  in  England,  was 
invested  by  the  State  with  the  monopoly  of  issuing 
paper  money.  Thus  enormous  fortunes  arose  which 
gave  a  false  picture  of  the  true  condition  of  the  coun- 
try. Beyond  the  reach  of  competition  as  it  was, 
this  one  principle  alone  enforced  by  power,  suppressed 
free  intercourse,  undermined  confidence  in  one's  own 
and  others'  powers,  rose  destructively  between  supply 
and  demand,  and  created  those  frightful  differences 
in  possession  which  elevated  some  into  masters  and 
degraded  others  into  slaves. 

The  monopoly  of  money,  the  authority  of  the  priv- 
ilege to  create  the  only  legal  medium  of  exchange, — 
if  it  fell,  the  State  fell,  and  the  track  was  cleared  for 
the  free  intercourse  of  men. 


But  Auban's  thoughts  were  interrupted. 

The  omnibus  finally  started  again,  leaving  the  im- 


158  The  Anarchists. 

mense  buildings  of  financial  traffic  behind  it,  the 
Bank  and  the  stock  exchange,  on  which  as  in  bloody 
scorn  shone  the  words  of  the  Bible  :  "  The  earth  is 
the  Lord's  and  the  fulness  thereof." 

As  he  wound  his  way  through  the  narrow  streets 
to  Liverpool  Station,  turning  aside  from  the  roar  and 
bustle  of  Broad  Street  to  reach  his  destination  by  a 
longer  but  quieter  route,  Auban,  walled  in  by  those 
high,  silent,  forbidding  houses  which  seemed  never 
to  have  been  cheered  by  a  ray  of  the  sun,  felt  as  if 
he  were  riding  through  the  cool,  dark  passes  of  a 
narrow  valley. 

The  omnibus  stopped  at  the  giant  buildings  of  the 
stations  of  Liverpool  Street.  Auban  entered  the  large 
bar-room  on  the  corner  of  the  street.  Its  apartments 
were  over-crowded.  People  jostled  each  other,  stand- 
ing, holding  in  their  hands  glasses  and  pewter  mugs, 
speaking  in  a  lively  manner,  discussing,  drowning 
each  other's  voices.  In  perpetual  motion  the  doors 
opened  and  shut ;  the  money  jingled  on  the  counter. 

Auban  sat  in  the  corner  for  a  while,  drinking  his 
half-and-half  in  small  draughts.  Then  he  pushed 
through  the  swarms  of  people  to  the  station.  Lean- 
ing against  the  grating  of  the  entrance,  in  the  midst 
of  a  crowd  of  screaming  newsboys,  bootblacks,  flower 
girls,  venders  of  all  sorts,  old  and  young,  stood  a 
small  deformed  boy,  noticed  by  no  ojie,  staring  before 
him  with  gloomy  sullenness,  his  hands  buried  in  his 
dirty  trousers,  ragged,  debased,  the  face  of  an  old 
man  on  the  thin  body  of  a  child.  Auban  saw  him, 
and  his  practised  eye  at  once  recognized  hunger 
in  those  looks.  He  bought  a  few  oranges  at  the 
nearest  cart.  With  speechless  greed  the  little  fellow 
ate  the  fruit,  without  looking  up,  like  a  starving  dog 
that  pounces  upon  a  bone.  How  long  was  it  since 
he  had  eaten  anything  ?  How  long  already  had  he 
been  standing  here,  his  little  heart  filled  with  scorn, 
bitterness,  and  despair,  apathetically  staring  before  him 
at  his  bare  feet  growing  stiff  on  the  cold  stones  ? 


The  Empire  of  Hunger.  159 

A  cold  shudder  ran  through  Auban.  It  was  the 
beginning  of  the  horror  which  had  always  turned 
him  into  ice  when  he  returned  from  the  home  of  the 
'"disinherited,"  the  silent  desolation  of  the  East  End 
of  London. 


As  the  train  bore  him  the  short  distance  to  Shore- 
ditch,  there  rose  before  him  in  gigantic  outlines  from 
a  hundred  separate  recollections  the  shadowy  picture 
of  that  monstrous  life  :  gloomy,  threatening,  silent, 
shapeless,  intangible. 

He  thought  of  many  another  walk  during  which 
he  had  for  long  hours  journeyed  through  the  empire 
of  hunger :  of  that  interesting  afternoon  in  the  pres- 
ent summer  when  he  had  crossed  the  Isle  of  Dogs 
from  end  to  end  on  foot,  stupefied  by  the  magnif- 
icence of  its  improvements  made  within  less  than 
twenty  years,  horrified  by  the  wretchedness  of  those 
abandoned  streets  in  whose  rickety  houses  and  miser- 
able huts  a  tired  race  seemed  to  have  hid  its  bur- 
dens of  care.  Then  of  that  evening  in  Poplar  which 
brought  the  afternoon  to  a  close,  when  he  had  watched 
the  enjoyments  of  the  poor  in  a  song  and  dance  hall 
of  the  lowest  order,  among  half-grown  boys  in  shirt- 
sleeves, and  girls  in  fine  hats  with  feathers,  a  pewter 
mug  of  ale  before  him,  his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  in  the 
three-penny  se»t,  the  best  and  also  the  last,  listening 
to  the  screaming  voices  of  some  hoarse  female  singers 
and  negro  imitators,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  noisy 
accompaniment  of  a  hundred  voices.  Then  of  that 
other  afternoon  in  Wapping,  through  which  he  had 
loafed  with  the  old  sailor  who  showed  him  the  enor- 
mous London  docks,  who  took  him  in  the  evening 
to  St.  George  Street,  that  notorious  sailors'  resort ; 
to  the  dance  hall  where  tall  Malayans,  silent  Norse- 
men, negroes,  and  Chinamen,  the  entire  strange  and 
heterogeneous  society  thrown  together  here  by  the 
ships  from  all  lands,  mingled  in  dance  and  dissipa- 


1GO  The  Anarchists. 

tion ;  and  to  the  opium  den  at  the  Mint,  that  dark 
hole  where  the  haunting  silence  of  death  seemed  to 
rest  over  deathlike  forms  lost  in  their  vice.  And 
Auban  thought  of  his  solitary  evening  walks  in  the 
terrible  misery  of  the  districts  of  Whitechapel  and 
Bow,  where  there  was  hardly  a  street  through  which 
he  had  not  walked  in  amazement  at  the  frightful 
things  he  saw,  and  in  horror  of  the  still  more  fright- 
ful things  he  suspected  behind  the  dirty  walls  and 
the  broken  window-panes. 

Auban  had  neither  costly  habits,  nor  any  special 
claims  on  daily  life  that  took  much  of  his  time.  His 
days  were  mostly  given  to  his  calling,  which,  however, 
did  not  slavishly  bind  him  to  the  hour ;  his  evening 
hours  mostly  to  his  studies  in  political  economy  and 
watching  the  course  of  the  movement.  Then  the 
Sunday  afternoons  to  his  friends.  What  leisure  was 
left  he  devoted  to  walks  through  the  immense  city. 
These  walks  constituted  his  only  genuine  pleasure, 
his  greatest  enjoyment.  He  was  happy  if  he  could 
get  away  an  afternoon  for  such  a  walk ;  then  he  would 
bend  over  the  large  map  of  the  city,  let  his  linger 
move  from  one  point  to  another,  until  he  had  fixed 
the  starting-point  and  the  destination  of  that  day's 
walk.  When  he  plunged  into  the  mysterious  life  of 
a  strange  neighborhood,  he  was  seized,  carried  awa}-, 
inspired  by  the  greatness  of  the  age  which  in  cease- 
less activity  had  created  all  those  mighty  things ; 
when  he  returned  to  his  quiet  room,  he  was  as  if 
crushed  beneath  the  pressure  of  this  overpowering 
life  that  lifted  some  to  the  summit  of  happiness,  to 
hurl  the  rest  into  the  abyss  of  misery.  .  .  . 

He  had  often  thought  of  transferring  his  room,  for 
a  time  at  least,  into  the  wretchedness  of  this  life,  in 
order  to  learn  to  know  it  better  than  he  should  ever 
be  able  to  by  mere  outside  observation,  but  he  could 
never  find  the  time.  So  he  had  to  rely  on  what  he 
saw  and  heard  when  occasion  took  him  there.  And 
even  that  was  indeed  enough. 


The  Empire  of  Hunger.  161 

Now  Trupp  had  carried  out  this  plan.  He  had 
written  a  card  to  his  friend:  he  had  given  up  his 
work  in  consequence  of  some  trouble  with  his  boss, 
and  was  now  living  in  the  neighborhood  of  White- 
chapel.  He  suggested  a  rendezvous  near  Shoreditch. 

At  four  o'clock.  It  had  just  struck  half-past  three. 
Auban  awaited  him  without  impatience. 

Trupp  arrived  at  the  appointed  time.  His  solid, 
broad-shouldered  form  was  safely  making  its  way 
through  the  throng.  Again  as  on  that  evening  in 
Soho  he  saw  Auban ;  his  hands  resting  on  his  cane, 
gently  leaning  against  the  entrance  pillar  of  Shore- 
ditch  Station,  not  lost  in  revery  this  time,  but  closely 
observing  men  and  surroundings. 

They  exchanged  greetings.  The  last  Sunday  after- 
noon was  not  mentioned. 

Trupp  was  more  gloomy  than  usual.  Full  of  bitter- 
ness, he  told  of  the  insolent  brutality  of  his  boss,  the 
contemptible  servility  of  his  fellow-workingmen,  the 
dull  inactivity  of  his  comrades.  An  example  must 
again  be  set,  else  everything  would  fall  asleep.  He 
looked  pale,  as  if  he  had  had  little  rest  of  late. 
There  was  an  unsteady  flicker  in  his  eye.  —  They 
turned  into  Hackney  Road,  that  sad,  long  street  of 
trouble  and  care  where  the  small  shopkeepers  live. 
Then  Trupp  turned  southward,  toward  the  district  of 
Bethnal  Green. 

The  bustle  round  them  suddenly  ceased.  The 
streets  grew  narrower,  darker,  duller ;  the  filth  greater 
and  greater.  Only  here  and  there  an  insignificant 
store  with  knicknacks  and  old  rubbish.  Else  nothing 
but  locked  doors  and  windows,  whose  panes  had  long 
ago  been  blinded  by  the  filth. 

They  passed  through  several  streets ;  then  at  a 
sudden  turn  they  entered  a  narrow  passage  that  led 
through  under  a  house.  It  seemed  to  grow  lighter, 
for  the  many-storied  houses  were  at  an  end. 

They   stood   on   a   small    square.      Three    streets 


162  The  Anarchists. 

started  thence  which  were  formed  by  narrow  houses, 
all  two  stories  high,  whose  back  yards  adjoined  each 
other. 

It  had  taken  them  hardly  five  minutes  to  reach  this 
place. 


Trupp  stopped,  waiting.  He  did  not  say  a  word, 
but  Auban  suspected  that  it  was  just  this  spot  he 
wanted  him  to  see. 

He  took  his  stand  on  a  pile  of  heaped-up  earth  and 
surveyed  the  picture  that  presented  itself. 

Never  in  his  life,  it  seemed  to  him,  had  he  seen 
anything  more  sad,  more  depressing,  more  disconso- 
late than  the  stiff  uniformity  of  those  filthy  holes  of 
which  one  adjoined  the  other  in  horrid  symmetry 
until  the  twentieth  disappeared  in  the  gray  gloom  of 
this  chilly  November  afternoon.  The  yards  that 
were  separated  from  each  other  by  crumbling  walls 
reaching  to  a  man's  breast,  and  whose  narrowness 
hardly  permitted  one  to  stretch  out  his  arms,  were 
filled  with  muddy  pools  of  slimy  filth ;  heaps  of  rub- 
bish 'were  piled  up  in  the  corners ;  wherever  one 
looked,  he  saw  broken  things  and  furniture  lying 
about ;  here  and  there  a  rag  of  gray  linen  was  hang- 
ing motionless  in  the  chilly  air.  The  stone  steps 
leading  to  the  doors  were  worn  out ;  the  blinds  of  the 
windows,  mostly  broken,  were  swinging  loosely  on 
their  hinges ;  the  window-panes  were  cracked,  hardly 
one  was  whole ;  the  holes  pasted  over  with  paper ; 
where  the  windows  were  open,  bare  walls  were 
seen. 

Not  a  human  soul  far  or  near.  It  seemed  as  if 
death  had  just  passed  in  giant  strides  through  these 
streets  and  touched  all  breathing  things  with  his 
redeeming  hand.  .  .  . 

Then  Auban  saw  something  move  in  the  distance. 
Was  it  an  animal,  a  human  being?  He  fancied  he 
recognized  the  bent  form  of  a  woman.  But  at  this 


The  Empire  of  Hunger.  163 

distance  he  could  not  distinguish  anything  clearly.  — 
A  thin  smoke  rose  from  a  few  of  the  many  chimneys 
and  mingled  with  the  leaden  gray  air. 

No  artist  has  ever  attempted  to  paint  this  picture, 
Auban  thought,  and  yet  he  would  need  to  put  only 
one  color  on  his  palette  :  a  dirty  gray. 

He  listened.  From  a  great  distance  an  uninter- 
rupted dull  roll  came  rumbling  into  this  forsaken 
stillness :  the  thousand-fold  noises  of  bustling  Lon- 
don consolidated  into  one  portentous  muttering.  But 
here  it  found  no  echo  in  answer. 

Meanwhile  Trupp  had  been  walking  up  and  down : 
he  had  stood  before  the  rotting  carcass  of  a  dog, 
looked  at  the  hidden,  rusty  lantern  at  the  street  cor- 
ner which  had  lost  its  panes  to  the  last  splinter,  and 
was  now  seeking  in^  vain  for  a  trace  of  something 
green  in  this  dusty  sand  —  not  a  single  blade  of 
grass  found  sustenance  in  this  cursed  soil.  .  .  . 

Everywhere  neglect ;  wherever  the  eye  turned,  the 
neglect  of  hunger  which  daily  fights  a  frightful  bat- 
tle with  death. 


Slowly  the  friends  tore  themselves  away  from 
the  wretched  sight,  and  silently  walked  down  the 
middle  street.  Sometimes  a  window  was  half  opened, 
a  bushy  head  thrust  out,  and  shy,  curious  eyes  fol- 
lowed half  in  fear,  half  in  hate,  the  wholly  unusual 
sight  of  the  strangers.  A  man  was  hammering  at  a 
broken  cart  which  obstructed  the  whole  width  of  the 
street.  He  did  not  respond  to  the  greeting  of  the 
passers-by ;  stupefied,  he  stared  at  them  as  at  an 
apparition-  from  another  world ;  a  woman  who  had 
been  cowering  in  a  door  corner,  motionless,  rose  terri- 
fied, pressed  her  child  with  both  hands  against  her 
breast  hardly  covered  with  rags,  and  propped  herself, 
as  if  to  offer  resistance,  against  the  wall,  not  once 
taking  her  eye  off  the  two  men ;  only  a  crowd  of 
children  playing  in  the  mud  of  the  street  did  not 


164  The  Anarchists. 

look  up,  —  they  might  have  been  taken  for  idiots,  so 
noiselessly  did  they  pursue  their  joyless  games. 

Trupp  and  Auban  walked  faster.  The}'-  felt  like 
intruders  upon  the  secrets  of  a  strange  life,  and  they 
hastened  to  get  away  from  all  those  looks  of  fear,  hate, 
envy,  astonishment,  and  hunger. 

At  the  end  of  the  street  another  group  of  children 
was  gathered :  they  were  amusing  themselves  by  the 
sight  of  the  dying  fits  of  a  cat  whose  eyes  they  had 
gouged  out,  and  whom  they  had  hanged  by  the  tail. 
When  the  bleeding,  tortured  animal  jerked  with  its 
feet  to  get  away,  they  struck  at  it  with  the  cruel, 
awful  pleasure  children  take  in  visible  pain.  Trupp 
quickly  stepped  among  them :  "  Cut  it  down ! "  he 
commanded.  But  he  might  just  as  well  have  spoken 
in  German,  so  little  were  the  words  understood, 
which  in  his  mouth  sounded  hard  and  unnatural.  In 
speechless  astonishment  the  children  looked  up  at 
him,  without  knowing  what  he  wanted  of  them.  He 
had  to  take  the  dying  animal  away  himself. —  Return- 
ing to  Auban,  he  loudly  expressed  his  indignation  at 
such  shameful  cruelty  to  animals.  The  other  sadly 
shrugged  his  shoulders  :  "  Better  conditions,  better 
manners,"  he  said  ;  "  what  else  can  avail  here  ?  " 

Trupp  seemed  to  know  every  nook  and  corner  of 
these  streets.  He  led  the  way  back  and  forth,  often 
standing  still  when  they  came  to  a  house  whose 
cracked  walls  seemed  as  if  they  would  tumble  down 
if  one  leaned  against  them ;  then  again  finding  nar- 
row passages  of  an  arm's  width,  from  whose  walls 
a  filthy  moisture  trickled  down,  gathering  on  the 
ground  below  in  pestilent,  nauseous  pools ;  so,  surely 
and  without  a  word,  he  led  Auban  through  the  dark 
labyrinth  of  this  immense  misery,  whose  gloomy 
monotony  seemed  to  be  without  end,  no  matter  what 
direction  they  chose. 

They  came  into  a  court-like  space  which  was  en- 
closed by  tall,  gray  houses  ;  Gibraltar  Gardens  was 
to  be  read  on  a  sign  on  the  street  corner.  "  Gibraltar 


The  Empire  of  Hunger.  165 

Gardens  !  "  said  Trupp ;  "  they  mock  the  misery 
which  they  have  created  !  "  —  On  the  cracked  asphal- 
tum  of  the  court  a  number  of  the  children  were 
amusing  themselves  with  roller-skating  —  in  the 
"Gardens  of  Gibraltar,"  where  not  a  blade  of.  grass 
grew ! 

The  friends  walked  on  through  narrow  streets  of 
very  old,  bent,  low,  small  houses,  whose  doors  one 
could  enter  only  with  bowed  head:  pedlers  lived 
there,  and  they  had  filled  the  street  to  suffocation 
with  their  second-hand  rubbish ;  and  then  suddenly 
the  wanderers  came  upon  the  roaring  life  of  Church 
Lane.  At  a  blow  the  physiognomy  of  the  surround- 
ing was  changed :  from  deathlike  desertion  into  the 
rushing  life  of  trade  on  a  Saturday  afternoon  ! 

Auban  was  tired.  He  limped  more  heavily.  At 
his  suggestion  they  spent  a  half-hour  in  the  nearest 
public  house,  where  he  sat  down  in  a  corner.  They 
still  did  not  talk  much  together ;  at  most,  indicating 
some  observation  to  each  other.  It  was  a  gin  palace 
of  the  lowest  order  which  they  had  entered.  It  was 
called  "The  Chimney  Sweep,"  as  Auban  laughingly 
noticed.  The  sawdust-covered  floor  reeked  with 
filth  and  saliva ;  the  bar  was  swimming  with  all  sorts 
of  drinks  running  together,  which  dried  up  into  a 
sticky  crust ;  behind  it,  where  the  large  barrels  were 
piled  against  the  wall  from  the  floor  to  the  ceiling, 
the  waiters  had  all  they  could  do  to  fill  the  hands 
stretched  out  towards  them ;  the  stupefying  odor  of 
tobacco  smoke  and  brandy,  the  moist  warm  vapors  of 
unwashed  clothing  and  bodies  crowding  each  other, 
filled  the  space  to  the  last  corner. 

Here  misery  was  in  search  of  its  frightful  happiness 
by  drowning  its  hunger  in  drink.  It  was  a  genuine 
East  End  crowd ;  men  and  women,  the  latter  almost 
as  numerous  as  the  former',  some  with  infants  on 
their  withered  breasts,  but  most  of  them  old  or  at 
any  rate  appearing  old*.  Through  the  grown  people 
ragged  children  were  forcing  their  way.  Almost  all 


166  The  Anarchists. 

were  drunk,  in  the  first  stages  of  the  Saturday  drunk 
from  which  they  sober  up  in  sleep  on  Sunday. 
Auban  called  Trupp's  attention  to  an  inscription  on 
the  wall :  "  Swearing  and  bad  language  strictly  pro- 
hibited !  "  .  .  .  It  was  simply  ridiculous,  that  injunc- 
tion whose  threat  no  one  minded. 

The  confusion  of  noises  was  overwhelming.  It 
did  not  cease  for  a  moment,  and  rolled  in  swelling 
waves  back  and  forth  from  one  apartment  to  another. 
The  stammering  words  of  a  drunken  man  were 
drowned  by  the  coarse  abuse  of  an  excited  old  fellow, 
who  declared  somebody  had  drunk  out  of  his  glass ; 
and  the  neighing  laughter  with  which  the  two  men 
were  incited  against  each  other,  by  the  mad  screams 
of  a  woman  who  was  standing  with  clenched  fists 
before  her  husband  who  did  not  want  to  go  with  her. 
Young  men,  almost  boys,  were  singing  in  a  corner 
with  their  dressed-up  sweethearts  or  showing  them 
nigger  dances  by  stamping  the  resounding  floor  with 
their  heavy  shoes  in  measured  time  and  throwing 
their  upper  body  back  and  forth.  But  suddenly  the 
attention  of  all  women  was  aroused :  a  baby  had  begun 
to  cry ;  perhaps  he  found  no  more  nourishment  at  the 
breast  of  his  drunken  mother.  From  all  sides  they 
bent  over  the  little  wrinkled,  gray  face,  and  each 
woman  rivalled  the  others  with  suggestions  about 
quieting  him.  Natural  good-heartedness  broke  forth ; 
they  wished  to  help.  Despite  this,  the  infant  cried 
louder  and  louder,  until  his  lamentations  died  away 
in  a  low  whimpering. 

The  grotesque  spectacle  of  this  life  was  nothing 
new  to  Auban.  He  had  often  been  in  these  last 
haunts  of  misery,  where  the  appearance  even  of  a 
man  not  dressed  in  rags  is  an  event. 

To-day,  however,  most  of  the  people  were  already  too 
much  occupied  with  themselves  in  their  drunkenness, 
or  engaged  in  quarrels  and  disputes  with  one  another, 
to  concern  themselves  greatly  about  the  strangers. 
An  old  woman  only  obtruded  herself  on  Trupp  with 


The  Empire  of  Hunger.  167 

tenacious  persistence,  staring  at  him  in  a  repulsively 
tender  way  with  her  bloodshot,  bleared  eyes  and 
stammering  her  wishes  in  the  idiom  of  the  East  End, 
a  slang  of  which  he  did  not  understand  a  word.  He 
took  no  notice  of  her.  When  she  fell  against  him,  he 
pushed  her  calmly  aside.  In  doing  so  his  face  showed 
neither  disgust  nor  contempt.  This  woman  too  was  a 
member  of  the  great  family  of  humanity  and  his  sister. 

On  the  bench,  opposite  to  Auban,  sat  a  young, 
completely  neglected  girl.  Out  of  her  large  dark 
eyes  shot  forth  bolts  of  wrath  at  Trupp.  Why? 
From  hatred  against  the  foreigner  whom  she  had 
recognized  in  him?  From  anger  at  the  obtrusiveness 
of  the  old  woman,  or  at  his  cool  defence?  From 
jealousy?  —  It  was  not  to  be  learned  from  the  abuse 
which  she  showered  upon  him  from  time  to  time. 

Auban  studied  her.  Her  debased  features,  in 
which  contempt  mingled  with  meanness  and  hatred, 
were  still  beautiful,  notwithstanding  her  right  cheek 
was  scratched  bloody  and  her  hair  fell  over  her  fore- 
head in  wild  disorder.  Her  teeth  were  faultless. 
Her  disorderly  dress,  the  dirty  linen  sacque,  was  torn 
open,  as  if  with  brazen  intention,  and  revealed  to  view 
the  still  childlike  white  breasts.  "  Why  should  I  be  dis- 
turbed about  you?  "  all  her  movements  seemed  to  say. 

How  long  before  the  last  traces  of  youth  and  grace 
would  be  wiped  away  ?  What  difference  was  there 
still  between  her  and  that  old  woman,  always  drunk, 
into  whose  ear  Trupp  shouted,  as  she  again  fell 
against  him  with  the  whole  weight  of  her  body,  that 
he  did  not  understand  English  ;  he  was  a  German. — 

"Are  you,  darling ?"  she  stammered,  and  put  her 
face  close  to  his  own.  But  at  this  moment  she  was 
completely  overcome  by  her  drunkenness.  Uttering  a 
gurgling  sound,  she  fell  down,  head  foremost,  and  lay 
motionless,  on  the  slippery  floor.  The  gray  braids  of 
her  hair  half-covered  her  distorted  face. 

The  men  laughed  loudly ;  the  woman  shrieked  and 
covered  Trupp  with  a  flood  of  abuse. 


168  Tlie  Anarchists. 

Auban  had  risen.  He  wanted  to  lift  up  the  old 
woman.  But  Trupp  prevented  him.  "  Let  her  lie. 
She  lies  well  there.  If  you  should  want  to  lift  all  the 
drunken  women  on  their  feet  whom  we  shall  see 
to-day,  you  would  have  much  to  do." 

He  was  right.     The  woman  was  already  sleeping. 

"  Let  us  go,"  said  Auban. 

The  young  girl  had  come  up  to  Trupp  and  placed 
herself  breast  to  breast  against  him.  She  looked  at 
him  with  her  large  eyes  sparkling  with  morbid  desire. 
But  she  did  not  say  a  word.  Trupp  turned  aside 
from  her  toward  the  door. 

"  You  are  a  fool ! "  she  then  said  with  an  inde- 
scribable expression.  Auban  saw  her  return  to  her 
place  and  cover  her  face  with  her  hands. 


When  they  stood  on  the  street,  the  roar  and  the 
bustle  seemed  like  stillness  after  the  bluster  that  had 
surrounded  them. 

It  had  grown  darker  and  cooler.  The  air  was 
impregnated  with  moisture.  The  nearer  the  evening 
approached,  the  noisier  and  livelier  grew  the  street. 
The  vendors  on  the  wagons  who  monopolized  the 
edge  of  the  street,  one  after  the  other,  cried  louder. 
The  mountains  of  vegetables  and  oranges  were 
crumbling  together;  the  old  clothes  and  footwear 
were  thrown  pell-mell  together,  touched  by  so  many 
scrutinizing  hands ;  the  leaves  of  the  second-hand 
books  were  turned  over,  held  close  to  the  faces  in  the 
increasing  darkness. 

The  dealers  in  clams  and  snails,  the  abominable 
food  of  the  poorest  classes,  monopolized  the  street- 
corners.  The  sight  of  their  loathsome  wares  rilled 
one  with  nausea.  .  .  . 

"  Brick  Lane !  "  said  Trupp  suddenly. 

They  stood  at  the  entrance  of  that  street  so  much 
talked  about. 


The  Empire  of  Hunger.  169 

Whitechapel!  The  East  End  in  the  East  End! 
The  hell  of  hells  ! 

Where  do  you  end,  where  do  you  begin  ?  —  Your 
original  boundaries  of  a  district  have  been  effaced  by 
your  name  —  to-day  its  mention  recalls  the  darkest 
portion  of  the  great  night  of  the  East  End,  the  most 
dismal  of  its  dens  and  haunts,  the  deepest  of  its 
abysses  of  misery.  .  .  . 

Here  human  bodies  lie  piled  up  highest  and  most 
inextricably.  Here  the  crowds  whom  no  name  men- 
tions and  no  voice  calls  mingle  and  creep  over  each 
other  most  restlessly.  Here  want  huddles  the  human 
animals  most  closely  together  into  an  unrecognizable 
mass  of  filth  and  rubbish,  and  their  poisoned  breath 
lowers  like  a  pest-laden  cloud  over  this  section  of  the 
immense  city,  whose  narrower  boundaries  are  only 
drawn  in  the  south  by  the  black  streak  of  the 
Thames.  .  .  . 


From  north  to  south  in  a  slight  curve  extends 
Brick  Lane.  It  begins  where  Church  Street  runs 
into  Bethnal  Green  Road,  ending  at  the  Museum  of 
the  same  name,  which  was  founded  to  meet  the  desire 
of  the  "poorer  classes"  for  education,  just  as  Victoria 
Park  near  by  was  founded  that  they  might  not  be 
compelled  to  entirely  forego  their  scanty  breath  of 
fresh  air.  It  ends  where  at  Aldgate  the  interminable 
Whitechapel  Road  and  Mile  End  Road  branch  off  to 
the  north,  and  the  stately,  broad  Commercial  Road 
East,  running  as  far  as  the  India  docks  to  the  south. 

Whoever  has  once  slowly  sauntered  through  Brick 
Lane  can  say  that  he  has  been  grazed  by  the  pestilen- 
tial breath  of  want ;  whoever  has  gone  astray  in  its 
side-streets,  has  walked  along  the  edge  of  the  abyss 
of  human  suffering.  Whoever  would  like  to  see  how 
much  human  nature  can  endure ;  whoever  still  believes 
in  the  childish  dream  that  the  world  may  be  saved  by 
love,  poverty  relieved  by  charity,  misery  abolished  by 


170  The  Anarchists. 

the  State ;  whoever  would  trace  the  last  effects  of 
the  terrible  deeds  of  the  murderer  State, — let  him 
visit  the  battle-field  of  Brick  Lane,  where  men  do  not 
fall  with  skulls  cracked  and  hearts  shot  through,  but 
where  hunger  cuts  them  down  easily,  after  want  has 
deprived  them  of  their  last  force  of  resistance.  .  .  . 

It  is  a  long  walk  down  Brick  Lane.  The  friends 
walked  silently.  Enormous  warehouses,  looming  up 
in  the  distance,  vaulted  railroad  tunnels  of  the  Great 
Eastern  Railway,  broke  the  monotony  of  the  crowded 
rows  of  houses.  Frequently  they  had  difficulty  in 
elbowing  their  way  through  the  surging  crowds. 
Odors  alternated:  decaying  fish,  onions,  and  fat, 
pungent  vapors  of  roasted  coffee,  the  foul  air  of  filth, 
of  decaying  matter.  .  .  .  Shops  with  bloody  meat, 
stuck  on  prongs  —  "  cat's  meat";  at  every  street-cor- 
ner a  "  wine  and  spirits  "  house  ;  torn  posters  on  the 
walls,  still  in  loud  colors ;  a  crowd  of  young  men 
passes  by  —  they  shout  and  sing ;  down  the  side-street 
a  drunken  form  is  feeling  its  way  along  the  wall, 
muttering  to  itself  and  gesticulating,  perhaps  over- 
come by  a  single  glass  of  whiskey  because  the  stomach 
had  been  without  food  for  days.  .  .  . 

The  region  grew  more  and  more  dismal.  The  Jews' 
quarter,  the  poorest  of  the  poor.  The  victims  of  the 
exploiters,  the  "  sweaters,"  tailors,  and  small  trades- 
men. Infinitely  contented,  beasts  of  burden  bearing 
the  impossible,  satisfied  with  six,  yes,  four  pence  for 
eighteen  hours'  daily  labor,  completely  lost  in  dull 
resignation,  they  are  the  most  willing  subjects  of  the 
exploiters  and  force  wages  down  to  far  below  the  star- 
vation point.  So  they  are  the  terror  and  the  abom- 
ination of  the  inhabitants  of  the  East  End,  whom  they 
kill  by  their  tenacious  perseverance  and  their  calam- 
itous capacity  of  living  on  nothing  in  this  frightful 
struggle  of  a  more  than  merciless,  of  a  vicious  com- 
petition. 

They  alone  have  been  able  to  gain  a  firm  footing 
in  Whitechapel :  so  they  are  encamped  in  the  midst 


The  Empire  of  Hunger.  171 

of  the  East  End  like  a  decaying  fungus  at  the  base 
of  some  giant  tree.  .  .  . 

Again  those  frightful  rows  of  two-storied  houses, 
whose  gray  monotony  offers  no  resting  place  to  the 
eye,  stretching  toward  the  east  in  stiff  uniformity. 

Such  is  Brick  Lane,  whose  end  Auban  and  Trupp 
have  now  reached,  indescribable  in  its  apparent  indif- 
ference and  awful  gloom :  pass  through  it  not  once, 
as  to-day,  but  a  hundred  times,  and  nothing  else  will 
it  betray  to  you  of  its  hidden  secrets,  of  its  silent 
sufferings,  of  its  dead  lamentations,  except  this  one 
thing:  that  it  never  yet  saw  an  heir  to  happiness. 


Whitechapel !  When  the  two  friends  were  passing 
through  dirty,  narrow  Osborne  Street,  the  entrance  to 
Brick  Lane,  it  was  nearly  six  o'clock.  They  found 
themselves  in  the  midst  of  a  mighty  stream  of  human- 
ity that  was  flowing  up  Whitechapel  and  Mile  End 
Road :  thousands  upon  thousands  of  workingmen  bent 
towards  the  outer,  the  outermost  limits  of  the  giant 
body  of  the  city.  Through  the  fog  glowed  the  red 
eyes  of  the  lanterns,  in  long  rows,  converging  in  the 
farthest  distance.  The  north  side  of  the  street  was 
densely  occupied  by  two  rows  of  traders  of  all 
kinds,  their  wagons  and  stands,  from  which  smoking 
naphtha  lamps  threw  flames  of  light  upon  the  masses 
who  were  forcing  their  way  through  the  narrow 
middle  road,  jostling,  pushing  each  other,  excited, 
half  stupefied.  ...  It  is  the  great  day,  Saturday 
evening.  Whoever  still  has  a  penny  spends  it. 

For  Whitechapel  Road  is  the  greatest  public  pleas- 
ure-ground of  the  East  End,  accessible  to  all.  Large 
music  halls  with  broad  lobbies  and  •  high  stories  and 
galleries  are  located  there,  and  small  hidden  penny 
gaffs,  in  which  there  is  little  to  see  on  account  of  the 
tobacco  smoke,  and  little  to  hear  on  account  of  the 
noise.  —  There  is  the  medicine  man  with  his  wizard's 


172  The  Anarchists. 

oil  which  cures  all  ills,  —  no  matter  how  taken,  inter- 
nally or  externally,  —  as  well  as  the  shooting-stand, 
whose  waving  kerosene  oil  flames  make  the  gaslights 
unnecessary.  There  we  meet  the  powerful  man  and 
the  mermaid,  the  cabinet  of  wax  figures  and  the 
famous  dog  with  the  lion's  claws  —  his  forefeet  have 
been  split ;  all  that  is  to  be  seen  for  a  penny.  .  .  . 


Auban  and  Trupp  saw  nothing  of  all  these  splen- 
dors. They  had  to  pass  through  this  tide  for  a 
distance.  Only  step  by  step  could  they  proceed. 
Turning  again  towards  the  north,  whence  they  had 
come,  Trupp  led  his  friend  through  two  or  three  dark 
streets,  and  again  through  one  of  those  low  passages 
where  dust,  lime,  and  mortar  fall  down  on  them  from 
the  walls  which  they  graze.  .  .  .  Suddenly  they 
stood  in  one  of  those  quiet,  secluded  court-yards 
which  no  stranger  ever  enters.  Nothing  was  recog- 
nizable here  except  the  towering  masses  of  stone, 
which  during  the  day  could  hardly  offer  a  passage  to 
the  light  from  above,  so  closely  did  they  adjoin  each 
other.  But  now  they  completely  disappeared  in  the 
fog  and  the  approaching  night.  Auban  felt  as  if  he 
were  at  the  bottom  of  a  deep  well,  walled  in  on  all 
sides,  buried  alive,  with  no  way  out  and  no  light. 

But  he  felt  Trupp's  hand  again  on  his.  It  drew 
him  away.  Here  he  had  rented  a  room.  His  room 
was  on  the  first  floor,  close  by  the  door.  When  it 
was  lighted,  Auban  saw  that  its  entire  furniture  con- 
sisted of  a  bed  of  straw,  a  table,  and  a  chair.  The 
table  was  covered  with  papers,  pamphlets,  and  letters. 

While  he  contemplated  this  cheerless  simplicity, 
Trupp  was  walking  to  and  fro,  his  head  bent,  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  as  he  always  did  when  he  was  inwardly 
excited.  Forcing  Auban  to  take  the  chair,  while  he 
seated  himself  on  his  trunk,  he  broke  the  silence  of 
the  past  hours  by  telling  in  a  suppressed,  almost 
choked  voice  what  he  had  seen  during  the  past  days. 


The  Empire  of  Hunger.  173 

"  You  consider  this  a  poor  room  ?  You  are  greatly 
mistaken.  I  live  like  a  prince  —  I  am  the  only  per- 
son in  this  whole  house  who  has  his  own  room  to 
himself.  Yes,  several  hundred  people,  several  dozens 
of  families,  are  living  in  this  '  family  hotel.'  Here 
and  on  the  first  floor  things  are  still  passable :  one 
family  only  occupying  a  room,  parents,  children,  large 
and  small,  all  mixed  together.  Further  up  —  I  have 
not  yet  been  there,  for  on  the  third  floor  the  filth  and 
the  odor  are  such  that  one  must  turn  back  —  things 
are  not  so  well.  Two  families  in  one  room  not  larger 
than  this.  Whether  they  avail  themselves  of  the 
famous  chalk  mark,  I  cannot  say.  Suffice  it  that  they 
get  on:  sleeping-room,  drawing-room,  dining-room, 
kitchen,  sick  and  death  chamber  —  all  in  one.  Or  a 
hole  ten  by  six  feet  is  inhabited  by  six,  ten,  twelve 
workingmen  —  tailors.  They  work  twelve,  fourteen, 
sixteen  hours,  often  still  longer.  They  all  sleep  in 
that  one  room,  on  the  floor,  on  a  bundle  of  rags,  if 
they  do  not  work  through  the  nights  by  the  poisonous 
gaslight.  Days  may  pass,  weeks,  before  they  get  out 
of  their  clothes.  What  they  earn?  That  varies. 
Twopence  the  hour  ?  Very  rarely.  Most  of  the  time 
not  so  much  in  three,  but  frequently  only  in  six 
hours.  They  are  glad  if  they  get  one  or  one  and  a 
half  shillings  when  they  must  stop  from  exhaustion. 
For  making  a  coat  which  sells  at  two  guineas  in  the 
store,  they  get  from  four  to  five,  sometimes — when  a 
strike  is  favorable  to  the  sweaters  and  enables  them 
to  make  any  offer  —  only  two  to  three,  yes,  one  shil- 
ling. Do  you  want  to  hear  of  anything  more  ?  —  It 
is  the  same'  in  the  shoemakers'  branch,  among  the 
girls  who  make  match-boxes,  the  seamstresses,  the 
spinners.  The  making  of  a  gross  of  match-boxes 
fetches  about  twopence,  —  the  work  requires  from 
three  to  four  hours ;  the  sewing  of  a  dozen  shirts  four 
or  even  three,  and  two  and  a  half  pence ;  the  polish- 
ing of  a  gross  of  lead-pencils  —  an  hour  and  a  half's 
work  —  twopence;  there  are  hands  for  everything, 


174  The  Anarchists. 

which  will  not  rest  until  they  have  torn  their  nails 
from  their  fingers." 

Auban  interrupted  him.  He  knew  his  friend.  If 
he  allowed  him  to  go  on,  he  would,  promiscuously 
thrusting  his  hand  into  the  heap  of  collected  experi- 
ence, continue  hour  after  hour  to  draw  forth  one  fact 
after  another,  one  argument  after  another,  and,  in 
bleeding  pain  and  frightful  joy  at  once,  conjure  up  a 
picture  against  which  all  objections  would  prove 
futile.  Again  and  again  when  he  stopped  exhausted 
and  tremendously  excited,  his  ceterum  censeo  was  the 
revolution,  the  destruction  of  the  old  society,  the 
overthrow  of  the  existing  order  of  things. 

He  was  not  to  be  checked  in  his  mad  career.  Ever- 
new  rocks  did  he  find,  out  of  which  he  smote  the 
waters  of  his  theories.  Interrupted,  he  digressed, 
came  to  another  subject,  and  without  hesitation  tore 
off  the  veil,  putting  to  flight  any  ray  of  a  possible 
hope  of  slow  improvement,  strangling  every  idea  of 
peaceable  reform,  burying  it  under  the  burden  of  his 
impeachments.  .  .  .  Then,  when  he  had  enveloped  his 
hearers  in  the  shadows  of  his  despair,  he  whispered, 
stepping  before  them,  the  one  word :  "  Revolution  !  " 
and  left  them  alone  in  the  night  with  this  single  star. 
...  So  he  had  become  the  agitator  whose  words  had 
always  been  most  effective  when  born  of  the  moment. 
Better  than  any  one  else  Trupp  knew  how  to  break 
the  lethargy  of  indifference,  to  kindle  discontent,  to 
awaken  hatred  and  revolt.  Therefore  his  work  among 
the  indifferent  was  always  successful.  He  was  not  an 
organizer.  So  he  avoided  the  clubs  more  and  more. 
He  liked  to  get  out  of  the  way  of  discussions.  He 
did  not  know  how  to  convince.  When  the  rapture 
and  the  enthusiasm  of  the  hour  had  fled,  —  in  the 
dull  monotony  of  the  following  day  which  made  the 
struggle  appear  useless,  the  victory  hopeless,  —  many 
of  those  whom  he  had  carried  away  were  seized  anew 
and  more  powerfully  by  the  gloomy  feeling  of  the 
vanity  of  all  effort,  which  snapped  asunder  the  drawn 


The  Empire  of  Hunger.  175 

chord  of  hope.  He  could  point  the  way;  he  could 
not  take  the  lead. 

When  Auban  interrupted  him,  his  feverish  spirit 
seized  upon  another  side  of  the  conversation.  He 
told  of  the  children  of  this  misery  who  are  born  in 
this  and  die  in  yonder  corner,  more  than  thirty  in  a 
hundred,  before  passing  their  first  year,  missed  by  no 
one,  hardly  known  by  their  own  mothers,  never 
dressed,  never  enough  to  eat ;  of  the  fortunate  ones 
who  are  spared  a  life  of  uncertainty,  the  slow  death 
of  starvation ;  of  the  high  prices  the  poor  must  pay 
for  everything  they  need  —  four,  five  shillings  weekly 
rent  to  the  landlord  for  the  hole  of  a  room  alone, 
while  the  earnings  of  the  whole  family  do  not  amount 
to  ten,  twelve ;  of  the  comparatively  high  school 
money  which  they  are  compelled  to  pay  for  their 
children,  whom  they  need  so  much  to  help  add  a  few 
pence  weekly  to  their  earnings ;  of  their  complete 
helplessness  in  all  things,  at  the  death  of  their  rela- 
tives, for  instance.  Of  late,  dark  rumors  of  frightful 
occurrences  had  reached  the  public,  so  impossible  that 
everybody  regarded  them  as  the  abortion  of  a  dis- 
tempered brain,  of  a  sensational  imagination.  They 
were  based  on  facts.  Trupp  confirmed  them. 

It  was  not  a  very  uncommon  thing  for  corpses  to 
remain  unburied  for  days  in  the  same  room  where  the 
rest  of  the  family  lived  day  and  night. 

"  When  I  came  here,"  said  Trupp,  "  a  young  man 
of  about  twenty  had  died.  Of  a  fever ;  I  think  scar- 
let fever.  At  any  rate,  his  disease  was  contagious. 
The  husband  was  out  of  work;  the  wife  consump- 
tive. She  coughed  the  whole  day.  They  had  four 
children;  but  the  second,  a  girl,  came  home  only 
when  she  found  no  other  shelter.  She  and  her 
brother  were  the  only  ones  who  occasionally  brought 
something  into  the  house.  Besides,  there  is  the  old 
insane  mother  of  the  wife,  who  never  leaves  her  cor- 
ner in  the  room.  Well,  the  son  died.  He  had  been 
ill  eight  days.  Of  course,  no  care,  no  physician,  no 


176  The  Anarchists. 

food.  The  corpse  remained  on  the  same  spot  on 
which  the  sick  boy  had  died.  No  one  touched  it. 
Instead  of  looking  after  work,  the  man  ran  a  whole 
day  from  one  magistrate  to  another.  He  was  referred 
from  one  district  to  another ;  one  had  no  cemetery, 
to  the  other  he  did  not  belong.  He  was  a  foreigner, 
could  not  easily  make  himself  understood  —  in  short, 
the  body  remained  where  it  was,  without  a  coffin, 
un buried.  After  three  days,  people  in  the  house 
began  to  talk  about  the  matter ;  after  five,  the  stench 
came  through  the  cracks  of  the  door ;  after  seven,  it 
had  grown  so  intolerable  that  the  neighbors  in  the 
adjoining  rooms  revolted ;  only  after  eight  days  a 
policeman  heard  about  the  matter,  and  on  the  ninth 
finally,  the  corpse,  in  the  last  stage  of  putrefaction, 
was  taken  away !  The  papers  published  no  reports 
about  it.  And  why  should  they?  It  is  all  useless, 
anyway.  —  Nine  days !  That  is  easily  told,  but  no 
imagination  can  in  reality  paint  the  picture  of  that 
room ! " 

He  ceased  for  a  moment.  Auban  was  cold.  He 
drew  his  cloak  more  closely  round  him,  and  looked  at 
the  light  which  was  going  out. 

But  Trupp  had  not  yet  finished.  "Sometimes 
they  throw  a  corpse  into  a  corner  of  the  yard,  let 
what  will  become  of  it.  Not  far  from  here  is  a  street, 
which  is  inhabited  by  thieves,  pimps,  murderers,  rab- 
ble of  the  first  order.  There  are  crowds  of  children 
there.  When  one  of  them  died,  recently,  it  was  left 
where  it  lay.  No  one  claimed  it.  Who  the  parents 
were  no  one  knew.  The  woman  who  lived  yonder 
told  me  of  another  case.  Up  there  —  above  us  — 
lives  a  drunkard.  He  has  a  wife  and  seven  children. 
The  woman  works  for  the  whole  family.  Recently 
one  of  the  children  died  —  of  that  dreadful  disease 
for  which  science  has  no  name,  'slow  exhaustion,  in 
consequence  of  insufficient  nourishment '  —  do  not  the 
newspaper  reports  usually  call  it  so  ?  The  woman 
takes  her  very  last  thing  to  the  pawnshop,  only  to  be 


The  JEmpire  of  Hunger.  177 

able  to  buy  a  coffin  and  a  few  green  branches.  But 
before  she  can  get  enough  together  a  few  days  pass. 
One  evening  the  husband  comes  home;  of  course, 
completely  drunk.  The  coffin  is  in  his  way.  He 
takes  it  and  throws  it,  with  the  corpse,  through  the 
window  of  the  third  story.  The  following  day  the 
women  almost  killed  the  man  ;  but  over  their  gin  the 
men  laughed  about  the  '  smart  fellow.'  Such  is  East 
End  life." 


Auban  rose. 

"  Enough,  Otto,"  he  said.  "  Can  you  show  me  the 
street  of  which  you  just  spoke  ?  " 

"  Now  ?  —  I  guess  not !  We  should  not  get  away 
again  with  a  whole  skin." 

"  Then  let  us  go."  As  they  stood  by  the  door,  he 
looked  Trupp  in  the  eye.  "  You  will  surely  not  con- 
tinue to  live  here  ?  " 

"Why  not?  —  Am  I  perhaps  better?  Have  I 
earned  more  than  those  poor  ?  —  One  more  or  less 
matters  nothing." 

"Yes,  it  does.  One  less  in  filth  is  always  better 
than  one  more."  .  .  . 

As  they  stood  in  the  narrow  entry,  the  door  oppo- 
site was  opened.  A  thin  streak  of  light  faintly 
illumined  the  passage,  and  showed  the  person  emerg- 
ing to  be  a  young  woman.  She  muttered  something 
as  she  saw  Trupp.  It  sounded  like  an  entreaty,  and 
she  pointed  to  the  room.  A  suffocating,  musty,  cor- 
rupted vapor  met  the  men  as  they  approached  —  the 
vapor  of  clothing  that  had  never  been  aired,  of  decay- 
ing straw,  spoiling  food,  mixed  and  impregnated 
with  the  miasms  of  loathsome  diseases  produced  by 
that  uncleanliness  which  covered  everything, —  the 
walls,  the  floor,  the  windows.  In  the  cloud  of  vapor 
which,  despite  the  cold,  warmed  the  room  that  could 
not  be  heated,  a  bed  was  distinguishable  which  took 
up  the  whole  length  of  a  wall.  On  this  bed  rose  a 


178  Tlie  Anarchists. 

figure  that  would  surely  not  have  been  regarded  as 
a  human  being  if  it  had  not  hurled  towards  the  door 
a  flood  of  incoherent  abuse  :  his  face  entirely  disfig- 
ured by  vice,  disease,  drunkenness,  his  head  bound 
up  by  a  dirty,  blood-soaked  rag,  emaciated,  his  ex- 
hausted limbs  hardly  covered  by  rags,  the  man  resem- 
bled more  a  dead  than  a  living  person.  He  fell  back 
with  a  rattling  sound,  exhausted  by  the  exertion  of 
his  aimless  wrath.  Trupp  spoke  to  the  woman.  Auban 
only  heard  that  it  was  a  case  of  taking  the  sick  man 
to  the  hospital,  —  the  paradise  of  poverty.  He  felt 
tired  and  stupefied,  and  walked  ahead.  Trupp  soon 
followed.  He  had  to  lead  his  friend  by  the  arm,  so 
full  of  holes  was  the  creaking  floor  of  the  passage, 
so  worn  out  the  stone  flagging  of  the  stairs.  "  That 
is  also  one  of  those  whom  the  police  can  take  to  the 
poorhouse  every  day — they  have  'no  visible  means 
of  existence ' !  They  are  terribly  afraid  of  it,"  said 
Trupp. 

The  lighted  yard  was  deserted  as  before.  One 
might  have  believed  that  all  those  houses  enclosing 
it  were  uninhabited,  it  was  so  still ;  there  was  no  sign 
of  life. 

"It  is  always  so,"  said  Trupp.  "During  the  day 
the  children  are  never  noisy  in  their  play." 


There  was  a  group  of  people  at  the  corner  of  the 
next  street.  They  were  talking  together  in  a  lively 
manner.  Some  of  them  were  evidently  very  much 
excited.  As  Auban  and  Trupp  drew  nearer,  a  woman 
came  toward  them.  She  was  screaming  for  a  physi- 
cian. The  crowd  readily  made  way  for  them.  They 
passed  through  a  gateway.  A  yard,  half  dark,  nar- 
row, dirty,  lay  before  them.  Here  also  was  a  group 
of  men  and  women,  with  children  clinging  to  them. 
In  regular  paces,  two  policemen  were  walking  up  and 
down,  as  far  as  the  space  permitted. 

Auban  was  about  to  turn  back  again,  when   his 


The  Empire  of  Hunger.  179 

eyes  fell  on  a  lantern  which  stood  on  the  ground  and 
cast  a  dull  light  on  a  heap  of  straw,  on  which  lay  a 
human  form.  No  one  hindered  him  as  he  stepped 
closer.  The  people  standing  round  crowded  for- 
ward ;  the  policemen  paced  up  and  down.  Auban 
was  taken  for  a  physician.  The  corpse  lying  before 
them  was  that  of  a  man  of  about  fifty.  It  lay  on  the 
back,  the  arms  half  stretched  out  and  hanging  down 
on  both  sides,  the  open  eyes  turned  upwards.  The 
body  of  the  dead  man  was  covered  only  by  a  long, 
black  coat.  It  was  open  and  lay  against  the  naked 
flesh,  with  the  collar  drawn  up  and  enclosing  the 
neck.  From  his  tattered,  dirty,  and  threadbare  black 
trousers,  his  naked  feet  protruded,  covered  by  blue 
frost-marks  and  filth.  His  worn  silk  hat  with  a 
ragged  rim  had  rolled  away.  His  unkempt  gray 
hair  had  fallen  over  his  forehead ;  the  left  hand  of 
the  dead  man  was  clenched. 

Auban  bent  over  him.  The  body  was  frightfully 
emaciated :  the  ribs  of  his  chest  protruded  sharply ; 
the  joints  of  his  hands  and  feet  were  so  narrow  that 
a  boy's  hand  might  have  encircled  them.  His  cheeks 
were  fallen  in,  and  his  cheek-bones  stood  out  promi- 
nently ;  his  nose  was  sharp  and  thin ;  his  lips  entirely 
bloodless,  and  a  little  opened  as  if  in  pain ;  the  pro- 
jecting teeth  apparently  in  good  condition.  The  tem- 
ples and  the  region  of  the  throat  were  deeply  sunken 
—  the  corpse  appeared  as  if  it  had  been  lying  for 
months  in  a  dry  place,  so  thin  and  tight  the  yellowish 
skin  covered  the  bones. 

Auban  looked  up  to  the  policeman  who  was  stand- 
ing beside  him. 

"  Starved  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

The  policeman  nodded,  stolid  and  indifferent.  — 
Starved  !  A  thrill  of  excitement  ran  through  the 
crowd  standing  round,  who  had  noiselessly  followed 
every  movement  of  Auban.  The  word  passed  from  lip 
to  lip,  and  each  spoke  it  in  a  different  tone  of  fear 
and  horror,  as  if  each  had  heard  his  own  death  sen- 


180  TJie  Anarchists. 

tence.  The  children  clung  more  closely  to  the 
women,  these  more  closely  to  the  men.  A  young 
fellow  uttered  a  scornful,  loud  cry ;  he  was  pushed 
away.  The  whole  group  was  thus  set  into  commo- 
tion. They  jostled  each  other :  each  wished  to  cast 
a  glance  at  the  dead  man. 

The  policemen  resumed  their  walk,  occasionally 
casting  a  scrutinizing  look  at  some  individual  in  the 
crowd. 

Auban  had  risen  from  his  kneeling  position.  The 
hand  of  the  dead  man  had  fallen  back  flaccidly  after 
he  had  raised  it.  There  was  no  longer  a  trace  of  life 
in  the  lifeless  body. 

As  he  was  about  to  turn,  he  suddenly  felt  Trupp's 
iron  grasp  on  his  arm.  He  looked  up  and  saw  a 
thoroughly  troubled  face.  Trupp's  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  dead  man  in  rigid  fright  and  speechless 
amazement,  as  if  he  recalled  to  him  some  dreadful 
memory. 

"  Do  you  know  him  ?  "  asked  Auban. 

Trupp  made  no  answer.  He  steadily  gazed  at  the 
corpse. 

The  dead  man  lay  before  them,  and  it  suddenly 
seemed  not  only  to  Trupp,  but  also  to  Auban,  as  if 
a  last  ray  of  life  were  returning  into  his  broken  eyes, 
and  as  if  they  were  now  telling  in  silent  speech  for 
the  last  time  the  history  of  their  life :  the  history  of 
a  descent  from  high  to  low.  .  .  . 


Trupp  pulled  his  friend  away,  startled  from  his 
thoughts.  The  crowd  looked  after  them  in  dull 
expectation,  as  they  still  believed  Auban  to  be  a 
physician.  Only  the  two  policemen  continued  pac- 
ing up  and  down,  unconcerned :  presently  an  officer 
would  come  with  a  wagon,  and  to-morrow  the  dead 
would  lie  on  the  marble  slab  of  a  dissecting-table.  .  .  . 

On  the  street  Trupp  said  rapidly,  with  a  voice  still 
choked  with  fear :  — 


The  Empire  of  Hunger.  181 

"  I  saw  him  —  once  —  it  was  four  weeks  ago  —  in 
Fleet  Street.  .  .  .  He  was  coming  down  that  street  — 
towards  me  —  just  as  he  lay  there :  without  shoes, 
without  a  shirt,  but  with  a  tall  hat  and  black  gloves. 
The  sight  of  him  was  not  ridiculous;  on  the  con- 
trary, it  was  frightful.  He  looked  like  death  person- 
ified—  emaciated  like  a  skeleton — like  a  shadow!  — 
so  he  slunk  along  the  wall,  looking  straight  ahead, 
observing  no  one  and  unobserved  by  any.  —  My  feel- 
ing told  me  I  should  not  do  it;  but  I  recognized 
hunger,  and  so  I  went  up  to  him  and  asked  him 
something.  He  did  not  understand  me.  I  doubt  if  he 
heard  me  at  all.  But  when  I  gave  him  a  shilling,  he 
cast  a  glance  on  the  money,  then  one  on  me  as  if  he 
wanted  to  strangle  me  on  the  spot,  and  flung  what  I 
had  given  him  —  my  last  shilling  —  to  the  next  street 
urchin.  —  I  was  of  course  so  astonished  that  I  let  him 
go " 

Auban  shook  his  head. 

"  Is  it  really  the  same  man  ?  " 

"  Could  we  forget  that  face  after  we  have  once  seen 
it?" 

Auban  remained  silent.  It  was  a  strange  coinci- 
dence, but  it  was  not  impossible.  Trupp  might  be 
mistaken.  But  Auban  did  not  himself  believe  that  he 
was  under  a  delusion. 

He  too  was  greatly  agitated.  That  face  —  no,  one 
could  not  forget  it  after  having  once  seen  it.  But 
sadder  than  the  bloodless  cheeks  and  the  reproachful 
eyes  had  been  to  him  the  emaciation  of  those  en- 
feebled, completely  exhausted,  famished  limbs.  Hun- 
ger must  have  labored  long  and  patiently  before  death 
could  extinguish  the  blazing  flames  of  that  life  !  .  .  . 

Weeks  ago  passing  all  ordeals  through  the  strength 
of  pride,  it  succumbed  only  to-day ;  he  had  retreated 
into  a  corner,  the  dirtiest,  most  hidden  of  all  —  there, 
unseen  b}r  any  of  those  millions,  he  had  broken  down  ; 
there,  unheard  by  any,  he  had  breathed  his  last  sigh, 
—  tired,  perplexed,  stupefied,  sick,  despairing,  he 
had  —  starved ! 


182  The  Anarchists. 

"Starved!  .  .  .  Starved!  .  .  .  Starved!  .  .  ." 

Again  and  again  Trupp  muttered  that  word  to 
himself. 

Then  aloud  to  Auban :  — 

"To  see  that  we  had  indeed  not  expected!  —  Look, 
how  everything  justifies  me  !  But  the  vengeance  we 
shall  take  will  efface  everything ! " 

"  Except  folly,"  thought  Auban.  But  of  course 
he  did  not  say  it  now. 

"  There  can  be  no  blame  :  what  has  the  blind  done 
that  he  is  blind  ?  —  Only  folly,  folly  everywhere  — 
yes,  and  it  will  take  a  terrible  revenge  !  .  .  ." 


Suddenly  they  stood  at  the  entrance  to  the  large, 
broad  living  stream  of  Whitechapel  Road. 

They  had  been  walking  till  now  without  knowing 
where.  Absorbed  in  what  they  had  seen,  they  forgot 
all  else.  Now  they  were  startled  by  the  light  that 
suddenly  flooded  them.  They  looked  about.  Every- 
thing was  as  it  had  been  two  hours  ago.  Again  the 
lights !  Again  life,  flowing,  rushing  life,  ever  and 
ever  again  conquering  life  after  the  terrors  of  death ! 

"  To  the  club !  "  said  Auban.  It  was  the  first  word 
that  he  spoke.  He  was  tired,  hungry,  but  outwardly 
and  inwardly  calm,  congealed  as  it  were.  Trupp  was 
neither  thirsty  nor  exhausted.  While  he  changed  his 
course  with  the  confidence  of  habit  and  crossed  Com- 
mercial Road,  he  looked  before  him  gloomily,  appar- 
ently cold,  but  stirred  by  indignation,  tortured  by  a 
dull  pain. 

They  had  only  a  few  minutes  more  to  walk.  A 
street  lay  before  them,  enveloped  in  the  darkness  of 
the  evening,  illumined  by  not  a  single  light.  It  was 
Berner  Street,  E.G.  The  houses  ran  into  one 
another ;  doors  and  windows  were  hardly  to  be  dis- 
tinguished in  the  shadows  of  the  night.  Only  one 
well  acquainted  here  could  have  found  a  given  house. 
Auban  felt  his  way  with  his  cane  rather  than  walked. 


The  Empire  of  Hunger.  183 

Here  was  located  the  club  of  the  Jewish  revolu- 
tionists of  the  East  End.  Trupp  stood  before  the 
door  and  pulled  the  iron  knocker.  It  was  opened  at 
once.  Heads  emerged  from  a  room  on  the  right, 
friendly  hands  were  extended  to  Trupp  when  he  was 
recognized.  Auban  saw  with  what  pleasure  he 
grasped  the  hands  and  shook  them  again  and  again. 
He  himself  had  not  been  here  for  a  year.  He  doubted 
whether  he  would  see  any  familiar  faces.  But  he  had 
hardly  mingled  with  the  lively  groups  which  filled  the 
small  low  rooms  of  the  basement,  some  standing,  some 
sitting  round  the  tables  and  on  the  benches,  when  he 
felt  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder  and  looked  into  the 
face  of  an  old  comrade  whom  he  had  not  seen  for 
years,  not  since  his  years  of  storm  and  stress  in  Paris. 

"  Auban ! " 

"  Baptiste  ! " 

Memories  flew  up  like  a  flock  of  birds  whose  cage 
is  suddenly  opened  by  the  hand  of  accident. 

Except  the  "  Morgenrothe,"  the  third  section  of  the 
old  Communistic  Workingmen's  Educational  Society, 
the  "  International  Workingmen's  Club "  was  the 
only  club  of  revolutionary  Socialists  in  the  East  End. 
The  members,  about  two  hundred  of  them,  consisted 
mostly  of  Russian  and  Polish  immigrants.  The 
whole  of  Whitechapel,  which  for  the  most  part  was 
inhabited  by  their  countrymen,  constituted  their  wide 
field  of  propagandism. 

Auban  asked  his  friend  to  translate  for  him  por- 
tions of  the  paper  which  the  club  published  weekly 
at  a  great  sacrifice,  assisted  by  no  one,  bitterly  hated 
and  persecuted  by  the  wealthy  Jews  of  the  West  End 
(who  once  even  succeeded  by  bribery  in  temporarily 
suppressing  the  paper).  It  was  called  "  The  Work- 
er's Friend,"  and  was  printed  with  Hebrew  letters  in 
that  queer  mixture  of  the  Polish,  German,  and  Eng- 
lish idiom,  which  is  chiefly  spoken  by  the  Polish 
emigrants  and  understood  only  with  difficulty  by 
others. 


184  The  Anarchists. 

Trnpp  was  in  the  midst  of  a  group  of  lively  talk- 
ing people.  They  asked  him  to  speak.  He  evidently 
had  no  desire  to.  But  he  consented,  and  followed 
them  to  the  upper  hall,  after  he  had  hastily  drunk  a 
glass  of  beer. 

Auban  remained  sitting,  and  ordered  something 
to  eat.  The  acquaintance  who  had  recognized  him 
overwhelmed  him  with  questions.  They  learned 
many  things  from  each  other:  one  of  their  friends 
had  been  cast  ashore  here,  another  there,  by  the  great, 
mighty  wave  of  the  movement.  In  the  course  of 
those  few  years  everything  had  been  moved  out  of 
its  position,  had  changed,  had  taken  on  a  new  aspect. 

Auban  grew  more  serious  than  he  had  been.  He 
felt  again  the  whirr  of  the  wheel  rolling  on  and  on, 
the  tramp  of  the  crushing  footstep  that  had  also 
passed  over  him.  .  .  .  No  sword  was  any  longer 
suspended  above  him.  He  no  longer  feared  anything, 
since  he  battled  only  for  himself.  But  still  the  drops 
of  pain  were  flowing  from  the  scars  of  his  iron  heart. 

They  talked  of  their  former  friends.  One  of  them 
had  been  shown  up  as  a  decoy?  Was  it  possible? 
None  of  them  would  have  thought  that.  "  He  was  a 
scoundrel." 

"Perhaps  he  was  only  unfortunate,"  suggested 
Auban.  But  the  other  would  not  hear  of  that. 

Thus  they  talked  together  for  an  hour. 

Then  they  ascended  the  narrow  stairs  to  the  hall, 
which  was  completely  packed  with  people.  It  was 
of  medium  size  and  held  hardly  more  than  a  hundred 
and  fifty  persons.  Plain  benches  without  backs 
stretched  through  it  crosswise  and  along  the  walls. 
Everywhere  extreme  poverty,  but  everywhere  also 
the  endeavor  to  overcome  poverty.  On  the  walls 
hung  a  number  of  portraits :  Marx,  Proudhon,  Las- 
salle  overthrowing  the  golden  c.alf  of  capitalism ;  a 
cartoon  in  a  black  frame:  "Mrs.  Grundy"  —  the 
stingy,  greedy,  envious  bourgeoisie,  which,  laden  with 
treasures  of  all  sorts,  refuses  the  starving  the  pittance 
of  a  penny.  .  .  . 


TJie  Empire  of  Hunger.  185 

At  the  front  the  room  was  enclosed  by  a  small 
stage.  There  Trupp  was  standing  beside  the  table 
of  the  chairman.  He  spoke  in  German.  Auban 
pushed  a  little  forward  to  see  him.  He  could  under- 
stand only  a  few  words;  he  could  hardly  guess  what 
he  was  saying.  Was  he  telling  of  his  experiences 
that  evening?  .  .  .  Auban  felt  the  tremendous  pas- 
sion flooding  the  meeting  in  hot  waves  from  that 
point.  Breathless,  anxious  not  to  lose  a  single  word, 
they  hung  on  the  lips  of  the  speaker.  An  electric 
thrill  passed  through  those  young  people,  hardly  out 
of  their  teens ;  those  women  tired  and  crushed  by  the 
burden  of  their  ceaseless  toil ;  those  men  who,  torn 
away  from  their  native  soil,  had  found  each  other 
here  doubly  and  trebly  disappointed.  Rarely  had 
Auban  seen  such  devotion,  such  burning  interest, 
such  glowing  enthusiasm  as  shone  from  those  faces. 
He  knew  them.  Questions  that  among  the  children 
of  the  West  would  have  at  most  formed  matter  for 
calm,  indifferent  interchange  of  opinion,  were  dis- 
cussed here  as  if  life  and  death  depended  on  them ; 
in  contrast  witn  their  own  sorrowful,  depressed,  nar- 
row life  only  the  ideal  of  paradise !  Nothing  else ! 
Highest  perfection  in  Communism :  above  all,  peace, 
fraternity,  equality !  Christians,  idealists,  dreamers, 
fools  —  such  were  those  Jewish  revolutionists  of  the 
East  End  — •  step-children  of  reason,  banner-bearers  of 
enthusiasm. 

Trupp  closed.  They  were  preparing  for  the  dis- 
cussion. 

"  Be  egoists !  "  Auban  would  like  to  have  shouted 
at  them.  "  Be  egoists  !  Egoism  is  the  only  weapon 
against  the  egoism  of  your  co-religionist  exploiters ; 
there  is  no  other.  Use  it :  cool,  determined,  superior, 
calm,  and  you  are  the  victors  !  " 

But  he  did  not  express  his  thoughts.  The  time 
when  he  himself,  inspired  and  inspiring,  had  stood 
by  the  surging  waves  of  excited  masses  had  been 
followed  by  years  of  study.  His  course  included 


186  The  Anarchists. 

but  one  study :  men.  Since  he  understood  them, 
he  knew  that  the  effect  of  the  spoken  word  is  the 
greater,  the  more  general,  the  more  ideal  it  is,  the 
farther  it  goes  to  meet  the  vague  desires  of  the  heart. 
It  is  the  phrase  that  is  everywhere  received  with  wild 
joy  by  the  crowds ;  the  clear,  sober  word  of  reason, 
stripped  of  tinsel,  addressing  itself  to  individual  in- 
terests, denying  all  moral  commands  of  duty,  dies 
away  without  "being  understood,  and  without  effect. 

Had  not  that  been  brought  home  again  to  him  only 
last  Sunday? 

Therefore,  if  he  should  speak  to-day,  he  would 
again  reap  only  misunderstanding,  instead  of  joyful 
applause. 

The  discussion  was  in  full  swing.  Almost  every- 
one who  approached  the  speaker's  table  spoke  with 
the  most  glowing  zeal  to  convince,  to  persuade :  not 
a  word  was  lost. 

Trupp  retreated  to  the  background  of  the  hall. 
There  he  was  again  surrounded  on  all  sides.  They 
wished  to  be  enlightened  on  this  or  that  point  of  his 
speech.  He  replied  to  each. —  Auban  had  sat 
down.  His  acquaintance  had  left  him.  He  did  not 
understand  a  word.  He  saw  the  excited  faces  that 
hovered  about  him  through  a  thin  veil  of  tobacco 
smoke. 

"  To-day  flaming  enthusiasm,  to-morrow  sobering  up 
and  discouragement.  .  .  .  To-day  Haymarket,  to- 
morrow the  gallows.  .  .  .  To-day  revolution,  to- 
morrow a  new  illusion  and  its  old  authority  ! "  he 
thought. 

Trupp  asked  him  if  he  would  go  with  him  to  the 
"  Morgenrothe."  There  was  a  meeting  at  that  place, 
and  he  wished  to  speak  there  also.  Auban  let  him 
go  alone. 

The  workingmen's  Marseillaise  was  sung.  The 
gathering  began  to  break  up.  The  crowd  mingled 
together. 

A  tall,  broad-shouldered  German  comrade,  with  a 


The  Empire  of  Hunger.  187 

blonde  beard  and  hair,  his  glass  in  his  hand,  with  his 
head  raised,  sang  in  a  clear,  firm  voice,  giving  the 
keynote,  as  it  were,  the  first  stanza  of  the  song  over 
the  heads  of  the  others  :  — 

Wohlan,  wer  Recht  und  Freiheit  achtet, 
Zu  unserer  Fahne  steht  zu  Hauf  ! 
Ob  uns  die  Luge  noch  umnachtet, 
Bald  steigt  der  Morgen  hell  herauf  ! 
Ein  schwerer  Kampf  ist's,  den  wir  wagen, 
Zahllos  ist  unserer  Feinde  Schaar  — 
Doch  ob  wie  Flammen  die  Gefahr 
Mog'  tiber  uns  zusammenschlagen, 

Tod  jeder  Tyrannei ! 

Die  Arbeit  werde  frei ! 

Marsch,  marsch, 

Marsch,  marsch  ! 

Und  war's  zum  Tod  ! 

Denn  unsere  Fahn'  ist  roth  ! 

All  joined  in  the  refrain. 

Auban  hummed  the  French  words  of  the  Marseil- 
laise. .  .  .  How  many  times  already  had  he  heard  it, 
how  many  times  already  joined  in  singing  it?  In 
hope,  in  revolt,  in  despair,  in  the  confidence  of  vic- 
tory ?  Who  had  not  already  sung  it  ? 

Auban  chanced  to  see  how  the  eyes  of  a  young 
man  —  he  was  evidently  a  Pole  or  a  Russian  —  were 
suspiciously  resting  on  his  strange  form.  He  could 
not  help  smiling. 

Should  he  tell  him  who  he  was  ?  —  They  did  not 
know  him  any  more.  But  still  the  mere  mention  of 
his  name  would  have  sufficed  to  at  once  put  to  flight 
all  doubt  and  suspicion. 

But  he  refrained  from  doing  it.  He  looked  at  his 
watch :  he  must  not  stay  much  longer,  if  he  still 
wished  to  catch  the  last  train  of  the  underground  road 
for  King's  Cross  at  Aldgate. 

He  went.  They  had  reached  the  closing  stanza  of 
the  song.  They  sang  :  — 

Tod  jeder  Tyrannei ! 
Die  Arbeit  werde  frei ! 
Marsch,  marsch, 
Marsch,  marsch ! 


188  The  Anarchists. 

Und  war's  zum  Tod  ! 
Denn  unsere  Fahn'  ist  roth  ! 
Denn  unsere  —  Fahn'  ist  —  roth  ! 
Denn  unsere  —  Fahn'  —  ist  —  roth  ! 


Auban  stood  on  the  street.  It  was  pitch  dark. 
With  difficulty  he  felt  his  way  to  where  the  great 
streets  converged.  But  before  he  had  yet  reached 
the  first  gaslights,  an  enormous  building  suddenly 
rose  before  him  in  the  darkness :  in  four  rows,  one 
above  the  other,  twelve,  fourteen,  twenty  brightly 
illuminated  windows.  ...  It  was  one  of  the  large 
factories  of  which  there  are  from  forty  to  fifty  in 
every  parish  of  the  East  End  of  London.  Was  it  a 
silk  factory  ?  Auban  did  not  know. 

That  building,  ugly,  coarse,  ridiculous  in  shape,  a 
four-cornered  monstrosity  with  a  hundred  red,  glow- 
ing eyes,  with  the  flitting  shadows  of  human  forms 
and  the  gigantic  limbs  of  the  machinery  behind  them, 
was  it  not  the  glaring  symbol  of  the  age,  the  charac- 
teristic embodiment  of  its  essential  spirit :  industry? 

The  culmination  of  the  evening  was  reached  when 
Auban  stood  again  on  the  spot  where  the  two  giant 
streets  converge.  Already  here  and  there  excessive 
fatigue  was  beginning  to  merge  in  the  stillness  of 
Sunday.  Soon  the  public  houses  were  to  close.  More 
and  more  the  people  constituting  the  great  stream  of 
humanity  were  disappearing  in  the  side-streets. 

But  still  the  throng  was  almost  impenetrable.  In 
feverish  haste  most  of  them  drained  the  last  flat 
drops  of  the  flat  drink  of  their  Saturday  spree. 

Aldgate  could  be  reached  in  less  than  five  minutes. 
There  was  still  half  an  hour  for  Auban  before  the 
last  train  of  the  underground  road  for  King's  Cross 
would  leave  Aldgate  Station,  and  overcome  by  an 
inward  force  against  which  he  was  helpless,  he  turned 
once  more  into  one  of  the  northern  side-streets,  into 
a  night  full  of  peculiar  mystery.  .  .  . 


The  Empire  #f  Hunger.  189 

Only  a  few  lanterns  were  still  burning  here,  only 
few  people  passed  by  him.  Then  he  came  upon 
streets  running  crosswise.  He  turned  toward  the 
west. 

He  passed  a  group  of  young  people.  They  were 
carrying  on  a  dispute  in  a  low  voice,  in  order  not  to 
attract  the  attention  of  a  policeman,  and  took  no 
notice  of  Auban.  He  kept  close  to  the  wall. 

A  light  shone  from  a  grated  window.  He  stopped 
and  looked  through  the  dirt-covered  panes.  It  was 
the  kitchen,  the  common  kitchen  of  a  lodging-house 
which  he  saw,  the  common  waiting-room  for  all  fre- 
quenters before  they  retire  to  the  sleeping-place  rented 
for  one  night. 

The  room  was  overcrowded.  More  than  seventy 
persons  must  have  been  there;  they  lay,  sat,  and 
stood  around  in  smaller  and  larger  groups:  some 
cowered  in  the  corners.  A  large  number  thronged 
round  the  fireplace.  There  they  prepared  their  food, 

—  tea,  a  bit  of  fish,  the  remains  of  meat.     Each  was 
awaiting  his  turn.     As  soon  as   one  made  room  by 
the  fire,  another  took  his  place.     The  spare  fire  did 
not  give  out  much  heat,  for  many  were  cold  in  their 
rags  and  crowded  closely  together. 

There  was  only  one  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 
Bent  over  it,  head  beside  head,  most  of  them  were 
already  asleep  in  confused  disorder,  —  men,  women, 
and  children  together.  Only  a  few  ate  there,  and  on 
the  narrow  benches  along  the  walls.  But  the  table 
was  strewn  with  dirty  tin  dishes,  —  cups,  bowls,  plates, 

—  which  the  exhausted  ones  had  pushed  away  before 
sleep  overcame  them.     The  floor  was  covered  with 
refuse  of  every  kind  ;  children  who  had  slipped  away 
from  the  laps  of  their  sleeping  mothers  crept  round 
like  little  blind  dogs. 

The  faint  glimmer  of  the  embers  hardly  illumined 
the  room.  Two  smoking  lamps  on  the  walls  were 
going  out. 

Nothing  that  he  had  seen  to-day,  nothing  that  he 


190  The  Anarchists. 

had  ever  seen  in  the  East  End,  had  made  a  deeper 
impression  on  Auban  than  the  silent,  gloomy,  dismal 
picture  of  that  room. 

Was  it  the  late  hour  that  was  having  its  effect  on 
him?  Was  it  his  overheated  brain,  exhausted  by 
long  hours  of  exertion,  which  produced  that  abor- 
tion ?  Or  did  that  which  he  had  so  often  seen  come 
close  to  him  now  that  he  was  alone :  this  night  scene 
of  the  abandoned  life  of  the  outcasts  ? 

He  held  his  breath  while  he  penetrated  every 
corner  of  the  picture  with  his  eyes. 

No  imagination  could  have  fancied  a  more  discon- 
solate room,  and  in  it  a  more  grotesque  grouping, 
than  was  presented  here  :  the  white-haired  old  man, 
whose  cane  had  dropped  from  his  hand  while  he  fell 
asleep  with  his  head  bent  forward;  the  young  girl 
who  was  staring  before  her  while  her  pimp  covered 
her  with  abuse  ;  that  entire  family  forming  a  group : 
the  father  evidently  out  of  work,  and  the  mother  in 
despair  over  their  situation,  quieting  the  children  who 
were  quarrelling  about  a  broken  dish  ;  those  sleeping 
rows  —  they  seemed  as  if  dead.  .  .  . 

And  above  them  all  the  gloomy  cloud  of  eternal 
filth  and  eternal  hunger.  No  longer  any  joy,  any 
charm,  any  hope  .  .  .  thus  day  after  day  .  .  .  thus 
night  after  night.  .  .  . 

Auban  forcibly  tore  himself  away  from  the  picture 
without  color,  without  outline,  without  tone. 

He  knew  those  lodging-houses  where  one  found 
shelter  for  single  nights.  But  white  letters  on  the 
red  walls  gave  the  additional  information :  three- 
pence, fourpence,  and  sixpence  a  night.  For  six- 
pence —  those  were  the  "  chambers  "  where  one  got 
his  own  bed,  whose  linen  was  changed  once  at  least 
every  few  weeks,  after  it  had  served  twenty  different 
bodies.  For  fourpence  they  slept  in  rows,  closely 
crowding  upon  each  other,  utilizing  the  space  to  the 
fullest  extent.  For  threepence,  finally  —  that  was 
the  large  room  with  the  empty  benches  on  which  one 


The  Empire  of  Hunger.  191 

slept,  or  the  kitchen  where  one  remained  on  the  spot 
where  one  fell  asleep  :  protected  against  nothing  but 
the  icy  cold  of  the  night  and  the  fatal  dampness  of 
the  street  pavement.  .  .  . 

A  man  staggered  out  of  the  door.  He  had  been 
turned  away  because  he  could  not  pay.  Auban 
wished  to  speak  to  him,  to  help  him,  but  he  was 
completely  drunk.  He  staggered  on  backwards  and 
forwards,  knocked  about  with  his  hands,  and  felt  his 
way  along  the  walls  of  the  houses,  muttering  and 
reeling  —  into  the  night  which  devoured  him. 

Auban  also  walked  on.  He  had  forgotten  where 
he  was  and  at  what  hour. 

Suddenly  he  reflected.  He  must  retrace  his  steps 
to  assure  himself  that  he  was  on  the  right  way.  There 
was  the  street  into  which  he  had  turned,  —  there- 
fore straight  ahead,  again  towards  the  west.  .  .  . 

From  that  point  only  an  unsteady  light  every  hun- 
dred paces.  The  streets  grew  narrower  and  narrower. 
The  pavement  worse  and  worse,  larger  and  larger 
mud  pools  and  rubbish  heaps.  .  .  . 

But  Auban  did  not  wish  to  go  back  again. 

The  door  of  a  house  stood  open.  Another  lodging- 
house,  but  an  unlicensed  one.  One  of  the  notorious 
rookeries,  as  the  people  call  them.  It  was  over- 
crowded. The  entire  narrow,  steep  stairway,  as  far 
as  Auban  could  see,  covered  with  crouching  dark 
human  bodies.  Over  and  beside  each  other,  like 
corpses  thrown  on  a  heap,  so  they  lay  there.  As 
far  as  the  street,  on  the  threshold  even,  they  were 
cowering.  Nothing  was  any  longer  plainly  recog- 
nizable; the  skin,  peeping  from  under  the  rags  and 
tatters,  was  as  dirty  as  they  were,  soaked  with  damp- 
ness, filth,  and  disease.  .  .  . 

Auban  shuddered.  He  hurried  on.  A  cross  street ; 
then  a  high  wall ;  a  monstrous  seven-story  tenement 
house,  suddenly  rising  out  of  the  darkness  like  a 
giant.  He  passed  it.  Straight  ahead  —  towards  the 
west. 


192  The  Anarchists. 

In  the  next  street  again  a  number  of  stragglers, 
but  scarcely  recognizable :  shadows  painted  on  the 
walls,  or  sitting  in  the  house  doors  petrified.  No 
noise,  no  talk,  no  laughter,  no  singing  .  .  .  the  still- 
ness of  the  grave. 

Auban  began  to  doubt  whether  he  was  on  the  right 
way.  Again  the  streets  grew  completely  deserted. 

But  he  knew  this  region.  Had  he  not  been  here 
in  the  daytime  ?  Everything  seemed  changed.  That 
wall  on  the  left  —  he  had  never  seen  it.  Had  he 
gone  wrong?  —  Impossible!  He  taxed  his  excited 
brain,  almost  to  bursting,  while  he  stood  still.  He 
reflected  —  it  must  be  so  and  could  not  be  otherwise  ; 
if  he  turned  toward  the  left,  toward  the  south,  he  must 
reach  Whitechapel  High  Street  in  three  minutes ;  if  he 
walked  straight  on  towards  the  west,  he  must  in  the 
same  length  of  time  reach  Commercial  Street.  .  .  . 

Forward,  then,  straight  ahead  !  .  .  . 

He  felt  only  now  how  tired  he  was.  His  lame  leg 
pained  him.  He  would  rather  lie  down  on  the 
ground  and  sleep. 

But  he  called  his  will  to  his  aid  and  walked  on. 

A  thought  came  to  him:  suppose  he  should  now 
be  attacked  —  who  would  hear  his  calls  for  help  ?  — 
Nobody.  He  had  no  other  weapon  with  him  than 
his  cane,  which  was  beginning  to  weigh  heavily  in 
his  hand.  —  If  anybody  should  meet  him  and  recog- 
nize a  stranger  in  him,  it  was  hardly  conceivable  that 
he  should  let  the  chance  of  robbing  him  pass  by.  .  .  . 

An  entirely  new  feeling  possessed  him.  It  was 
not  fear.  It  was  rather  the  abhorrence  of  the  thought 
of  being  attacked  by  a  wild  animal  in  human  form  in 
this  night,  in  this  filth,  in  this  solitude,  and  compelled 
to  engage  in  a  struggle  for  life  and  death. 

He  saw  how  careless  it  had  been  of  him  to  chal- 
lenge this  almost  unavoidable  danger.  He  remem- 
bered now,  too,  that  he  was  on  the  very  street  at 
the  entrance  of  which  a  policeman  had  told  him  a 
while  ago,  as  he  probably  told  every  well-dressed 
man,  to  keep  away  from  it. 


The  Empire  of  Hunger.  193 

Auban  hurried  on  as  fast  as  he  could.  But  the 
wall  seemed  to  be  endless.  The  darkness  was  im- 
penetrable. He  could  not  have  told  the  difference 
between  a  man  and  a  wall  at  ten  paces. 

He  held  his  cane  with  an  iron  grasp,  without  sup- 
porting himself  on  it.  He  fancied  every  moment 
that  he  saw  a  robber  emerging  from  the  darkness, 
feeling  him  at  his  throat  or  by  his  side.  .  .  .  But  he 
was  determined  to  sell  his  life  dearly  at  least. 

He  ran  and  swung  his  cane  before  him.  Perspira- 
tion dropped  from  his  forehead.  His  horror  in- 
creased. .  .  . 

Where  was  he? — It  was  no  longer  Whitechapel. 
It  was  a  night  without  beginning  and  end ;  the 
fathomless  depth  of  an  abyss.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  his  cane  struck  against  a  wall.  And 
now  Auban  could  again  distinguish  houses  and  win- 
dows on  his  right.  A  short  street  opened,  faintly 
illumined  by  a  single  lantern,  and  so.  narrow  that  no 
wagon  could  have  passed  through  it.  It  led  into  a 
longer  one.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  the  whole  width  of  Commercial  Street 
lay  before  Auban.  In  five  minutes  he  stood  panting 
under  the  round  glass  globe  of  the  light  which  illu- 
mined the  entrance  to  the  ticket-offices  and  the  stairs 
leading  below. 

He  had  reached  the  last  point  of  this  day's  walk, 
Aldgate  Station. 

He  still  had  just  ten  minutes  before  the  departure 
of  his  train. 

The  whole  way  from  the  Club  had  not  taken  more 
than  half  an  hour.  Auban  felt  as  if  hours  had  passed 
since  the  song  of  the  Marseillaise  had  vibrated  in  his 
ear.  , 


While  he  was  resting  to  quiet  his  wild  pulses,  while 
the  street  vendors  before  him  were  removing  their 
boards  and  boxes  with  the  remains  of  their  wares,  and 


194  The  Anarchists. 

round  him  men  were  jostling  and  pushing  each  other 
in  unconscious  intoxication  and  feverish  haste,  he 
once  more  turned  his  eyes  towards  the  east.  .  .  . 
And  in  a  flash  the  picture  he  had  been  longing  to 
shape  rose  before  him:  the  enormous  mouth  of  the 
gigantic  body  of  East  End  —  such  was  Whitechapel, 
which  lay  yawning  before  him.  Whatever  came 
near  its  poisoned  breath  staggered,  lost  its  hold,  was 
crushed  by  relentless  yawning,  and  devoured,  while 
all  the  sounds  of  misery,  from  the  rattle  of  fear  to 
the  sighs  of  hunger,  died  away  in  the  pestilent  dark- 
ness of  its  abyss.  And  all  the  countries  of  the  entire 
world  threw  their  refuse  into  that  greedy  mouth,  so 
that  at  last  that  terrible,  forceless,  insatiable  body 
might  satisfy  itself,  whose  hunger  was  immeasurable 
and  seemed  constantly  to  be  increasing.  .  .  . 

And  while  Auban  retreated  before  the  vapor,  he 
suddenly  saw  in  the  last  minute  still  remaining  to 
him  the  grand  vision  of  coming  events  :  that  gigantic 
mouth  opened  wide  its  foaming  jaws  and  vomited 
forth  in  choking  rage  an  enormous  slimy  wave  of 
rubbish,  filth,  and  corruption  over  London.  .  .  .  And 
—  like  a  tottering  mountain,  —  that  nauseating  wave 
buried  everything:  all  grandeur,  all  beauty,  all 
wealth.  .  .  .  London  was  now  only  an  infinite  lake  of 
rottenness  and  corruption,  whose  horrible  vapors  in- 
fected the  heavens  and  slowly  destroyed  all  life.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  TKAGEDY   OF  CHICAGO. 

THE  days  beginning  the  second  week  of  November 
seemed  shrouded  in  smoke  and  in  blood. 

While  in  London  the  cry  for  "  labor  or  bread  "  grew 
more  and  more  ominous  in  the  ears  of  the  privileged 
robbers  and  their  protectors,  the  eyes  of  the  world 
were  fixed  on  Chicago,  on  the  uplifted  hand  of  power. 
Would  it  fall?  or,  "pardoning,"  relax?  — 

The  events  of  the  day  followed  thick  and  fast,  one 
precipitating  another. 

Auban  had  passed  the  first  days  of  the  week  in  his 
office,  working  hard,  for  he  wished  to  have  the  last 
two  as  much  as  possible  to  himself. 

When  on  Wednesday  after  luncheon  he  went  to  his 
coffee-house,  he  saw  Fleet  Street  and  the  Strand 
covered  with  gay-colored  flags  and  streamers,  which 
stood  out  in  strange  relief  against  the  melancholy 
gray  of  the  sky,  the  slimy  black  of  the  street  mud, 
the  impenetrable  masses  of  people  who  monopolized 
the  sidewalks  on  both  sides.  Lord  Mayor's  show ! 
According  to  ancient  custom  the  procession  of  the 
newly  elected  mayor  of  the  city  was  moving  through 
the  streets  with  great  pomp  and  ceremony,  and  for  a 
few  hours  the  people  forgot  their  hunger  in  the  con- 
templation of  the  gay,  childish  farce. 

What  an  age !  thought  Auban.  The  city  pays  this 
worthless  talker  ten  thousand  pounds  annually  for 
his  useless  labors,  and  while  he  dines  at  Guildhall  in 
wasteful  revelry,  hunger  for  a  piece  of  bread  is  gnaw- 
ing at  the  vitals  of  countless  thousands  ! 

He  did  not  wish  to  see  the  procession.     He  sought 

195 


196  The  Anarchists. 

his  way  through  half-deserted  side  streets.  A  fine 
rain  was  ceaselessly  dripping  down.  Dampness,  cold, 
and  discomfort  penetrated  the  clothing. 

He  bought  a  morning  paper  and  rapidly  ran  through 
it.  Trafalgar  Square  in  every  column  !  Meetings  of 
the  unemployed  day  after  day  —  now  permitted,  now 
forbidden.  .  .  .  — Arrests  of  the  speakers.  ...  — 
Alarming  rumors  from  Germany :  the  disease  of  the 
crown  prince  said  to  be  incurable  .  .  .  faint,  timid 
surmises  as  to  its  nature  .  .  .  cancer  .  .  .  the  fate 
of  a  country  for  weal  or  for  woe  dependent  on  the 
life  and  death  of  a  man  !  .  .  .  —  France  —  nothing 
...  —  Chicago  !  .  .  .  Brief  remarks  on  the  petitions 
for  pardon  of  four  of  the  condemned  to  the  governor 
of  Illinois,  in  whose  hands  rests  the  final  decision 
after  the  refusal  of  a  new  trial.  .  .  .  On  the  discov- 
ery of  bombs  in  one  of  the  cells.  .  .  .  Indeed,  cer- 
tainly !  Public  sentiment  is  too  favorable  to  the  con- 
demned. So  bombs  were  suddenly  "  discovered  "  — 
discovered  in  a  prisoner's  cell  guarded  by  day  and 
by  night !  —  and  it  again  takes  an  unfavorable  turn  ! 
—  That  discovery  came  too  opportunely  at  a  moment 
when  the  petitions  for  pardon  —  these  petitions  which, 
as  the  newspapers  graphically  described,  would  form 
a  line  eleven  miles  in  length  if  attached  one  to 
another  —  were  being  filled  with  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands of  signatures,  to  leave  any  doubt  in  regard  to 
the  conscious,  deliberate  intention  of  the  report. 

Auban  crumpled  the  paper  in  his  hands  and  threw 
it  away.  Now  his  last  hope  had  fled.  In  terrible 
clearness  the  coming  days  rose  before  him,  and  the 
frosty  air  shook  him  like  a  fever. 


The  eleventh  of  November  fell  on  a  Friday. 
Auban  was  sitting  in  his  room  at  the  table  covered 
with  papers,  pamphlets,  and  books.  It  was  about  five 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  light  of  the  day  was 
fading  away  between  the  gloomy  rows  of  houses. 


The  Tragedy  of  Chicago.  197 

Auban,  aided  by  the  abundant  material  which  his 
American  friend  had  placed  at  his  disposal,  had  de- 
voted the  entire  day  to  a  review  of  the  tragedy,  on 
whose  last  act  the  curtain  had  just  fallen,  in  each  of 
its  separate  phases,  from  beginning  to  end. 

What  he  had  seen  rise  and  grow  in  each  of  its 
parts  now  stood  before  him  as  a  perfect  whole. 

But  he  was  still  looking  through  the  piles  of 
papers  and  turning  the  leaves  of  pamphlets  in  nervous 
haste,  as  if  he  wished  to  gain  additional  light  on  some 
of  the  points  that  seemed  not  yet  to  have  been  set 
forth  in  sufficient  clearness. 

The  impossibility  of  his  to-day's  task  of  picturing 
to  himself  in  perfect  clearness  the  whole,  as  well*  as 
its  separate  parts,  almost  drove  him  to  despair.  The 
contradictions  were  too  numerous.  The  tragedy  on 
which  the  last  veil  had  fallen  to-day  would  never 
be  thoroughly  understood. 

Nevertheless,  the  facts  rose  in  tangible  form  before 
Auban. 

Before  his  mind's  eye  stands  Chicago,  one  of  the 
largest  cities  of  the  United  States :  fifty  years  ago 
still  a  little  frontier  town ;  twenty  years  ago  a  pile 
of  ruins,  made  so  in  a  night  by  a  great  conflagration, 
but  rebuilt  in  a  day ;  to-day  the  magnificent  city  by 
the  great  lake,  the  granary  .-of  the  world,  the  centre 
of  a  boundless  traffic,  exuberant  with  an  energy  of 
which  the  aging  life  of  the  East  no  longer  knows 
anything.  ...  In  that  city  of  rapid  growth,  with  a 
population  of  almost  a  million,  of  which  one-third 
are  Germans,  in  all  their  terrible  clearness  the  con- 
sequences of  legally  privileged  exploitation  of  human 
labor :  the  accumulation  of  wealth  in  a  few  hands  to 
a  dizzy  height,  and  in  faithful  correspondence  with  it 
ever  larger  masses  driven  to  the  edge  of  the  impossi- 
bility of  supporting  their  lives.  .  .  .  And  hurled 
into  that  fermenting  city,  like  a  new  and  more  terri- 
ble conflagration,  the  torch  of  the  social  creed: 
fanned  by  a  thousand  hands,  the  flames  spread  so 


198  The  Anarchists. 

rapidly  as  to  make  it  appear  that  the  days  of  the 
revolution  are  at  hand.  .  .  . 

The  authorities  send  their  police ;  and  the  people 
sends  its  leaders  whom  it  follows.  The  former  club 
and  shoot  down  striking  workingmen,  and  the  latter 
call  in  a  loud  voice :  "  To  arms  !  To  arms  !  "  — and 
point  to  the  device :  "  Proletarians,  arm  yourselves !  " 
as  the  only  remedy. 

Force  against  force  !     Folly  against  folly  ! 

The  movement  in  favor  of  the  eight-hour  workday 
in  the  United  States,  the  "eight-hour  movement," 
which  dated  back  almost  two  decades,  and  the  end 
of  which  a  million  workingmen,  four  hundred  thou- 
sand "  Knights  of  Labor,"  and  an  equal  number 
belonging  to  the  "  Federated  Trades  Unions,"  expect 
to  see  in  the  first  of  May,  1886,  is  the  point  around 
which  both  parties  are  engaged  in  equally  hot  con- 
tention. .  .  .  What  the  agitation  of  former  years 
had  already  here  and  there  secured  as  a  written 
"  right  "  remained  an  unacquired  right. 

The  "International  Workingmen's  Association," 
founded  in  1883  by  German  revolutionists  in  Chicago 
who  called  themselves  Anarchists,  but  who  preached 
the  Communistic  creed  of  common  property,  although 
it  regards  universal  suffrage  simply  as  a  means  with 
which  to  cheat  the  workingmen  out  of  economic 
independence  by  the  pretence  of  political  liberty, 
nevertheless  takes  a  position  on  that  question 
which  is  rapidly  becoming  the  sole  issue  of  the 
day,  in  order  not  to  let  slip  an  important  field  of 
propagandism.  .  .  . 

The  first  of  May  is  preceded  by  unexpected  events 
in  Chicago,  the  centre  of  the  eight-hour  movement ; 
the  closing  of  a  large  factory  —  in  consequence  of 
which  twelve  hundred  workingmen  are  without 
bread — is  followed  by  meetings  that  culminate  in 
serious  collisions  with  the  official  and  unofficial  police, 
the  private  detectives  of  the  Pinkerton  Protective 
Agency  in  the  service  of  the  capitalists,  the  notorious 
"  Pinkertonians."  .  .  . 


The  Tragedy  of  Chicago.  199 

Thus,  after  more  than  forty  thousand  workingmen 
had  laid  down  their  work  in  Chicago  alone,  on  the 
impatiently  expected  first  of  May,  and  three  hundred 
and  sixty  thousand  in  the  States,  the  police  on  the 
third  of  May  made  an  attack  on  the  workingmen,  in 
which  a  large  number  of  them  were  wounded.  The 
object  of  the  meeting,  called  for  the  fourth  of  May  at 
the  Hay  market  by  the  "  Executive  Committee "  of 
the  I.  W.  A.,  was  to  protest  against  those  outrages 
of  the  constituted  authorities. 

On  the  same  day  one  of  the  leaders,  the  editor  of 
the  great  German  "  Arbeiter-Zeitung,"  wrote  a  cir- 
cular which  was  destined  to  achieve  a  terrible  celeb- 
rity under  the  name  of  the  "  Revenge  Circular." 

It  is  written  in  two  languages  :  the  one  in  English 
addresses  itself  to  the  American  workingmen,  whom 
it  exhorts  to  prove  themselves  worthy  of  their  grand- 
sires  and  to  rise  in  their  might  like  Hercules ;  the 
one  in  German  reads :  — 

"REVENGE!  REVENGE!  WORKINGMEN,  TO  ARMS! 

"  Working  people,  this  afternoon  the  bloodhounds, 
your  exploiters,  murdered  six  of  your  brothers  at 
McCormick's.  Why  did  they  murder  them?  Be- 
cause they  dared  to  be  dissatisfied  with  the  lot  which 
your  exploiters  made  for  them.  They  asked  for 
bread,  and  were  answered  with  lead,  mindful  of  the 
fact  that  the  people  can  thus  be  most  effectively 
brought  to  silence.  For  many,  many  years  you  have 
submitted  to  all  humiliations  without  a  murmur, 
have  slaved  from  early  morning  till  late  in  the  even- 
ing, have  suffered  privations  of  every  kind,  have 
sacrificed  even  your  children,  —  all  in  order  to  fill 
the  coffers  of  your  masters,  all  for  them  !  And  now, 
when  you  go  before  them  and  ask  them  to  lessen  your 
burden,  they  send  their  bloodhounds,  the  police, 
against  you,  in  gratitude  for  your  sacrifices,  to  cure 
you  of  your  discontent  by  means  of  leaden  balls. 


200  The  Anarchists. 

Slaves,  we  ask  and  entreat  you,  in  the  name  of  all 
that  is  dear  and  sacred  to  you,  to  avenge  this  horrible 
murder  that  was  perpetrated  against  your  brothers, 
and  that  may  be  perpetrated  against  you  to-morrow. 
Working  people,  Hercules,  you  are  at  the  parting  of 
the  ways  !  "\Vhich  is  your  choice  ?  Slavery  and  hun- 
ger, or  liberty  and  bread  ?  If  you  choose  the  latter, 
then  do  not  delay  a  moment ;  then,  people,  to  arms  ! 
Destruction  upon  the  human  beasts  who  call  them- 
selves your  masters!  Reckless  destruction, — that 
must  be  your  watchword !  Think  of  the  heroes 
whose  blood  has  enriched  the  path  of  progress,  of 
liberty,  and  of  humanity  —  and  strive  to  prove  your- 
selves worthy  of  them. 

"  YOUR  BROTHERS." 

The  meeting  at  the  Haymarket  on  the  fourth  of 
May  is  so  orderly  that  the  mayor  of  the  cit}%  who  had 
come  with  the  intention  of  closing  it  at  the  first  sign 
of  disorder,  tells  the  police  captain  he  may  send  his 
men  home. 

The  wagon  from  which  the  speakers  are  talking  is 
on  one  of  the  large  streets  that  lead  to  the  Hay- 
market.  It  is  surrounded  by  several  thousand  people, 
who  are  calmly  following  the  words,  first  of  the 
writer  of  the  manifesto,  then  of  the  elaborate  address 
of  an  American  leader  on  the  eight-hour  movement ; 
there  are  many  details  touching  the  relation  of  capital 
to  labor. 

A  third  speaker  also  makes  an  address  in  English. 

Clouds,  threatening  rain,  rise  on  the  sky,  and  the 
larger  portion  of  the  audience  disperses.  Then,  as 
the  last  speaker  is  closing,  the  police,  numbering 
about  a  hundred  men,  make  a  set  attack  on  those 
remaining.  At  this  moment  a  bomb  falls  into  the 
ranks  of  the  attacking  party,  hurled  by  an  invisible 
hand ;  it  kills  one  of  them  on  the  spot,  inflicts  fatal 
wounds  on  six  others,  injures  a  large  number,  about 
fifty.  Under  the  murderous  fire  of  the  police,  those 
remaining  seek  refuge  in  the  side  streets.  .  .  . 


The  Tragedy  of  Chicago.  201 

The  frenzy  of  fear  reigns  in  Chicago.  No  one  of 
the  enemy  sees  in  the  throwing  of  the  bomb  an  act  of 
self-defence  on  the  part  of  one  driven  to  despair.  .  .  . 
And,  while  in  labor  circles,  the  false  assumption  is 
gaining  ground  that  it  is  the  deliberate  deed  of  a 
police  agent  which  was  to  enable  threatened  and 
terrified  capital  to  deal  a  fatal  blow  against  the  eight- 
hour  movement,  the  press,  in  the  pay  of  capital,  is 
inflaming  public  opinion  by  monstrous  reports  of 
bloody  conspiracies  against  "  law  and  order,"  by  re- 
printing incendiary  passages  from  labor  editorials  and 
speeches,  while  it  had  itself  prescribed  lead  for  the 
hungry  tramp,  and  a  mixture  of  arsenic  and  bread  for 
the  unemployed,  in  order  to  get  rid  of  them.  .  .  . 

The  three  speakers  of  the  evening  are  arrested. 
Likewise,  four  other  well-known  individuals  in  the 
movement ;  the  eighth,  the  American  publisher  of  an 
American  labor  paper,  the  "  Alarm,"  later  surrenders 
himself  voluntarily.  ...  Of  the  many  who  are 
arrested  and  examined,  these  eight  are  held  and 
summoned  to  appear  before  the  court. 

Thus  stood  the  facts  of  the  early  history  before 
Auban's  eyes :  a  battle  had  been  fought  in  the  great 
conflict  between  capital  and  labor,  and  the  victors  sat 
in  judgment  on  their  prisoners. 

But  the  conflict  had  been  brought  to  a  sudden  halt 
for  a  long  time  to  come. 

The  second  act  of  the  tragedy  begins :  the  trial. 

Slowly  before  Auban's  eyes  the  curtain  is  lifted 
from  the  trial  as  he  had  followed  it  in  all  its  stages 
by  the  aid  of  the  countless  reports  of  the  newspapers, 
as  he  knew  it  from  the  speeches  of  the  condemned,  and 
as  he  had  studied  it  again  to-day  in  the  brief  submitted 
to  the  supreme  court  of  Illinois. 

It  had  indeed  been  a  laborious  task  to  which  he  had 
devoted  the  day.  Doubly  laborious  for  him  in  the 
foreign  —  to  his  mother  tongue  so  entirely  foreign — 
language.  But  he  wished  once  more,  and  for  the 
last  time,  to  see  if  the  enemy  had  not  at  least  the 
appearance  of  right  on  his  side. 


202  The  Anarchists. 

From  that  standpoint,  too,  the  conviction  of  the 
condemned  is  nothing  but  murder.  If  a  conspiracy 
had  really  been  on  foot  to  meet  the  next  attacks  of 
the  police  with  the  throwing  of  a  bomb,  the  individual 
act  of  the  fourth  of  May  was  certainly  in  no  relation 
to  it.  No  one  was  more  surprised  by  its  folly  than 
the  men  who  were  to  suffer  so  terribly  from  its 
consequences.  .  .  . 

In  the  first  place,  the  selection  of  the  jury  is  arbi- 
trary. Although  about  a  thousand  citizens  are  sum- 
moned, they  are  men  whose  admitted  prejudice  against 
the  movement  of  Socialism  compels  the  attorneys  of 
the  defendants  to  reject  them,  until  finally  they  must 
accept  men  who,  by  their  own  confession,  have  already 
formed  an  opinion  before  the  trial  has  yet  begun.  Of 
nearly  one  thousand  citizens  summoned,  only  ten  be- 
longed to  the  working  class,  which  alone  represents 
a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  in  a  population  of  three- 
quarters  of  a  million,  and  those  ten  live  in  the  imme- 
diate neighborhood  of  the  police  station.  The  State 
challenges  most  of  them  ;  those  whom  it  accepts  it  is 
sure  of  in  advance.  Such  is  the  jury  in  whose  hands 
is  placed  the  power  over  life  and  death !  .  .  .  Ignor- 
ance, joined  by  arrogance,  is  ever  ready  to  play  the 
part  of  the  ridiculous  and  contemptible ;  it  becomes 
terrible,  when,  as  here,  it  is  re-enforced  by  the  brutal- 
ity of  authority.  —  Then  woe  to  all  who  fall  into  its 
clutches !  .  .  . 

The  remaining  preliminaries  consist  of  the  arrest 
and  torment  of  innumerable  persons  belonging  to  the 
working  class ;  the  chief  of  police,  a  vain  dema- 
gogue of  the  commonest  type,  regards  no  brutality 
too  brutal,  no  artifice  too  contemptible,  to  get  from 
them  what  he  wants  to  know,  —  that  there  has  been 
a  conspiracy.  He  arrests  whom  he  pleases ;  he 
lengthens  or  shortens  the  period  of  arrest  as  he  sees 
fit ;  he  treats  his  victims  as  he  likes.  No  one  pre- 
vents him.  No  emperor  ever  ruled  with  more  sover- 
eign sway  than  the  bloated  insignificance  of  this 
brutal  demagogue. 


The  Tragedy  of  Chicago.  203 

By  the  middle  of  July  these  preliminaries,  too,  are 
completed.  The  State's  attorney  calls  upon  the 
defendants  to  answer  to  the  charge  of  conspiracy 
and  murder.  The  great  trial  which  had  begun  in  the 
middle  of  June,  by  the  selection  of  the  jury,  enters  its 
second  stage.  A  day  later  the  hearing  of  the  witnesses 
begins  in  the  presence  of  an  unexampled  throng  of  the 
public,  which  continues  undiminished  as  long  as  the 
trial  lasts. 

The  State  has  very  different  kinds  of  witnesses. 
Some  are  confronted  with  the  alternative  of  being 
themselves  indicted  with  the  prisoners  or  of  testifying 
against  them.  They  and  their  families  have  received 
support  from  the  police,  and  held  long  interviews  with 
them.  Even  so,  they  cannot  say  more  than  that  bombs 
have  been  manufactured  and  distributed,  but  they 
must  add  that  the  distribution  was  not  for  the  pur- 
pose of  use  at  the  Haymarket  meeting. 

Another  State's  witness  is  a  notorious  liar  of  most 
ill  repute  among  all  who  know  him.  His  testimony 
proves  the  most  decisive.  He  also  received  money 
from  the  police.  He  saw  everything :  who  threw  the 
bomb  and  Avho  lit  it ;  he  knows  who  was  absent  and 
who  was  present ;  only  of  the  speeches  that  were  de- 
livered he  heard  nothing.  And  he  knows  the  whole 
conspiracy  in  all  its  details. 

All  these  State's  witnesses  contradicted  each  other's 
testimony  —  but  the  bloody  clothes  of  the  killed 
policeman  are  spread  before  the  jury;  some  of  the 
defendants  never  saw  a  dynamite  bomb  —  but  the 
State's  attorney  reads  some  stupid  passages  from  the 
conscienceless  book  of  a  professional  revolutionist  on 
"  Revolutionary  Warfare  "  ;  a  number  of  the  defend- 
ants have  never  stood  in  any  relations  with  each 
other,  hardly  knew  each  other  —  but  the  jury  is 
flooded  with  extracts  from  speeches  and  articles  born 
of  the  excitement  and  passion  of  the  moment,  and 
which  in  many  cases  date  far  back.  .  .  . 

For   "Anarchy  is  on  trial."     By   the   sacrifice  of 


204  The  Anarchists. 

these  eight  men  a  ruinous  blow  is  meant  to  be  dealt 
against  the  entire  movement,  which  is  to  paralyze  it 
for  a  long  time,  the  bourgeoisie  against  the  proletariat, 
class  against  class ! 

The  attorneys  of  the  defendants  do  their  best  to 
rescue  the  victims  from  the  clutches  of  authority. 
But  as  they  are  compelled  to  meet  the  enemy  on  his 
own  ground  in  order  to  fight  him,  the  ground 
described  as  in  mockery  "  the  common  law,"  they  are 
necessarily  doomed  to  defeat.  And  they  are  defeated. 

By  the  end  of  August  the  jury  brings  in  ite  verdict, 
which  dooms  seven  men  to  an  untimely  death. 

Thus  finally  the  fool  spectacle  of  that  trial  which 
lasted  a  quarter  of  a  year  is  brought  to  a  close.  A 
new  trial,  urgently  demanded,  is  refused. 

The  defendants  deliver  their  speeches  before  the 
judge,  those  now  celebrated  speeches  through  which 
the  sufferings,  the  complaints,  the  wishes,  all  the 
despair  and  all  the  hope,  all  the  expectations  and  all 
the  defiance  of  the  people,  speak  in  all  the  tones  of  an 
outraged  heart  so  impressively  and  so  boldly,  so 
simply  and  so  passionately,  so  vehemently  and  so  — 
vaguely.  .  .  . 

A  whole  year  passes  before  the  butcher  State  can 
roll  up  his  sleeves  to  strangle  these  victims  with  his 
insatiable  hands.  And  it  almost  seemed  as  if  things 
were  to  take  a  different  turn.  For  while  the  work- 
ingmen  are  cheerfully  making  all  necessary  sacrifices 
to  accomplish  the  utmost  that  is  still  possible,  a 
revulsion  of  popular  feeling  is  gaining  ground,  and 
the  conviction  of  the  innocence  of  the  condemned 
is  taking  the  place  of  intimidated  fear  and  of  arti- 
ficially produced  hatred. 

The  weathercock  of  "  public  opinion"  is  beginning 
to  turn. 

Nevertheless  the  supreme  court  of  Illinois  to  whom 
the  case  was  appealed  in  March  of  the  following  year, 
affirmed  the  judgment  of  the  lower  court  in  September. 

And  likewise  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  United 
States  at  Washington. 


TJie  Tragedy  of  Chicago.  205 

The  day  of  the  murder  is  at  hand. 

The  power  of  staying  the  threatening  hand  of 
death  rests  now  with  a  single  man,  the  governor  of 
Illinois.  His  is  the  power  to  pardon. 

Three  of  the  condemned  submit  a  written  state- 
ment in  which  they  describe  the  indictment  as  alike 
false  and  absurd,  but  regret  having  championed 
violence  ;  the  remaining  four,  in  letters  full  of  pride, 
courage,  and  contempt,  decline  a  pardon  for  a  crime 
of  which  they  are  innocent.  They  demand  "  liberty 
or  death."  In  those  letters  one  of  them  writes :  — 

"  —  Society  may  hang  a  number  of  disciples  of 
progress  who  have  disinterestedly  served  the  cause 
of  the  sons  of  toil,  which  is  the  cause  of  humanity, 
but  their  blood  will  work  miracles  in  bringing  about 
the  downfall  of  modern  society,  and  in  hastening  the 
birth  of  a  new  era  of  civilization." 

Another :  — 

"  The  experience  which  I  have  had  in  this  country, 
during  the  fifteen  years  I  have  lived  here,  concerning 
the  ballot  and  the  administration  of  our  public  func- 
tionaries who  have  become  totally  corrupt,  has  eradi- 
cated my  belief  in  the  existence  of  equal  rights  of 
poor  and  rich,  and  the  action  of  the  public  officers, 
police,  and  militia,  has  produced  the  firm  belief  in  me 
that  these  conditions  cannot  last  long." 

And  a  third  one,  after  leaving  the  governor  the 
choice  of  being  "  a  servant  of  the  people  "  or  "  a  mere 
tool  of  the  monopolists  "  :  "  Your  decision  in  that 
event  will  not  judge  me,  but  yourself  and  those  whom 
you  represent.  .  .  ." 

Thus  they  themselves  press  the  martyr's  crown 
more  deeply  into  their  defiant  brows. 

The  governor  is  besieged  on  all  sides.  At  hun- 
dreds upon  hundreds  of  meetings,  hundreds  upon 
hundreds  of  resolutions  are  passed  protesting  against 
the  sentence.  Expressions  of  sympathy,  of  indigna- 
tion, are  heard  in  all  parts  of  the  world  ;  everywhere 
people  call  for  a  postponement,  for  pardon  .  .  .  only 


206  The  Anarchists. 

in  Chicago  itself  the  hand  of  authority  closes  the 
mouth  of  the  people  with  brutal  might. 

Only  in  the  case  of  three  death  is  commuted  into 
a  living  grave ;  five  of  them  must  die. 

Then,  at  the  last  moment,  when  the  waves  of  pop- 
ular sympathy  threaten  to  make  the  murder  which 
is  planned  impossible,  bombs  are  suddenly  found  in, 
the  cell  of  one  of  the  condemned.  The  venal  press 
does  its  share.  It  does  not  inquire  in  what  other 
way  than  with  the  knowledge  of  the  police  the  bombs 
could  have  been  placed  where  they  are  discovered  so 
opportunely ;  it  sounds  anew  its  cries  of  fear  about 
"  public  order  being  endangered,"  and  fabulous  ru- 
mors about  bloody  plans  contemplating  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  jail,  of  the  whole  city,  are  having  their 
effect  of  intimidation.  The  wave  of  sympathy  re- 
cedes. .  .  . 

Another  scene :  Weeping  women  are  lying  before 
the  man  who  embodies  authority  and  power.  They 
clasp  his  knees ;  a  poor  mother  pleads  for  the  life  of 
her  son ;  a  woman,  who  could  join  hands  in  union 
with  the  man  she  loved  only  through  prison  bars, 
demands  justice  ;  a  helpless  wife  points  to  her  trem- 
bling children  as  her  words  fail  her  ;  but  nothing  can 
touch  the  soulless  picture  of  stone,  in  whose  heart 
only  the  desolation  of  barrenness,  in  whose  brain 
only  the  prejudices  of  mediocrity  hold  sway. 

Shuddering,  liberty  turns  away. 

The  second  act  of  the  tragedy  is  closed.  On  the 
death  agonies  of  eighteen  months  drops  finally  the 
black  curtain  of  the  past. 


Auban  rose  and  walked  to  and  fro,  his  hands 
crossed  behind  his  back.  It  had  grown  dark.  The 
fire  went  out. 

He  was  absorbed  in  his  thoughts.  The  rustle  of  a 
paper  startled  him  ;  the  evening  paper  was  pushed 
through  the  door.  He  bent  down  and  took  it  up 
eagerly. 


The  Tragedy  of  Chicago.  207 

Death  or  life  ? 

A  cry  of  despair  escaped  from  his  lips.  By  the 
light  of  the  dying  fire  he  ran  through  a  short  cable 
despatch  :  "  Special  edition  —  6.15  P.M.  —  Chicago, 
November  10  —  Terrible  suicide  —  One  of  the  con- 
demned —  just  now  —  in  his  cell  —  shattered  his 
head  —  with  a  bomb  —  lower  jaw  entirely  torn 
away  —  " 

The  atmosphere  of  his  room  lay  oppressively  on 
Auban.  He  felt  as  if  he  were  choking.  Away  !  — 
away !  —  Hastily  he  took  his  hat  and  cane  and 
hurried  away. 


When  he  returned  an  hour  later,  he  found  Dr. 
Hurt  at  the  fireplace,  his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  in-  one 
hand  a  newspaper,  in  the  other  a  poker  with  which 
he  was  stirring  the  fire  into  a  fresh  glow.  He  was 
surprised.  It  was  the  first  time  since  the  death  of 
his  wife  that  the  doctor  had  visited  him,  except  on 
the  Sunday  afternoons. 

"  Do  I  disturb  you,  Auban  ?  Had  a  call  near  by, 
thought  it  would  be  good  to  warm  my  feet  and  have 
a  sensible  talk  in  these  days,  when  men  are  all  again 
acting  as  if  the  world  were  coming  to  an  end —  " 

Auban  pressed  his  hand  firmly. 

"  You  could  not  have  done  anything  better,  doc- 
tor," he  said.  He  spoke  each  word  clearly  and  dis- 
tinctly, but  his  voice  was  entirely  toneless.  Dr. 
Hurt  looked  at  him  as  he  lit  the  lamp,  prepared  boiling 
water,  and  brought  out  whiskey-glasses  and  tobacco. 

Then  they  sat  opposite  each  other,  their  feet 
stretched  towards  the  fire. 

Evidently  neither  of  them  wished  to  begin  the 
conversation. 

Finally  Auban  pointed  to  the  newspaper  which 
Dr.  Hurt  was  holding  in  his  hand,  and  asked :  "  Have 
you  read  ?  " 

Hurt  nodded  gravely. 


208  The  Anarchists. 

But  when,  looking  at  Auban,  he  saw  how  pale  and 
troubled,  his  face  was  from  the  suppressed  pain  within, 
he  said  solicitously  :  — 

"  How  you  look ! " 

Auban  waved  his  hand  deprecatingly.  But  then 
he  bent  forwards  and  buried  his  face  in  both  his 
hands. 

"I  have  passed  through  a  night  of  illusion,"  — 
he  said  slowly,  and  in  a  low  tone,  reciting  the  verse 
of  a  modern  poet.  .  .  . 

Dr.  Hurt  sprang  up,  and  for  the  first  time  putting 
aside  the  mask  of  his  icy  reserve,  placed  his  hand  on 
Auban's  shoulder,  and  said :  — 

"  Auban,  my  friend,  do  not  take  it  so  hard !  — 
Things  had  to  come  to  this  pass  sooner  or  later  — 

"What  would  you  expect?"  he  continued  more 
impatiently.  "  What  would  you  expect  of  the  gov- 
ernments ?  —  That  they  should  fold  their  hands  and 
look  calmly  on  while  the  tide  of  the  movement  devours 
them  ?  —  No ;  you  who  like  myself  know  that  right  is 
nothing  but  might,  and  the  struggle  for  life  nothing 
but  the  desire  for  might,  no,  you  cannot  see  in  the 
events  of  Chicago  anything  but  the  sad  episode  of  a 
common  struggle  which  to  your  reason  must  appear 
as  a  necessity." 

Auban  looked  at  the  speaker.  His  eyes  flashed 
and  his  lips  trembled. 

"  But  I  abominate  all  cowardice.  And  I  cannot 
conceive  of  any  greater  and  more  contemptible  cow- 
ardice than  this  cold-blooded  murder.  Courage, 
indeed!  To  murder  —  with  the  fools  behind  you, 
with  prejudice  by  your  side,  and  with  the  '  divine  con- 
sent' above  you.  What  cowardice,  to  let  a  battle 
be  fought  for  you  !  Not  to  stand  man  against  man, 
but  to  hide  yourself  behind  the  robe  of  the  law,  the 
bayonets  of  soldiers,  the  lists  of  savage  hirelings,  — 
stupid  beasts  who  know  of  no  other  will  than  that  of 
their  masters!  What  cowardice,  I  say,  to  have  the 
majority  of  ignorance  on  your  side  and  then  to  declare 
you  are  in  the  right !  Is  there  a  greater  ?  " 


The  Tragedy  of  Chicago.  209 

As  his  visitor  made  no  reply,  he  continued :  — 

"  For  me  there  is  but  one  truly  noble  and  dignified 
frame  of  mind :  the  passive ;  and  but  one  form  of 
activity  whose  results  I  call  great :  that  of  one's  own 
powers.  I  hold  all  those  who  have  developed  out  of 
themselves,  who  stand  and  fall  by  themselves,  in 
boundless  esteem  ;  but  equally  boundless  is  my  aver- 
sion towards  those  whom  folly  elevates  to-day,  to  let 
them  fall  back  into  their  nothingness  to-morrow." 

"  Yes,  everything  is  thrown  in  a  heap,  true  and 
false  merit,"  said  Dr.  Hurt. 

"  Why  are  there  still  rulers  on  thrones  ?  Because 
there  are  still  subjects.  Whence  this  social  misery  ? 
Not  because  some  raise  themselves  above  others, 
but  because  the  others  renounce  themselves.  On 
our  lives  rests  the  curse  of  an  entirely  unnatural 
idea :  the  Christian  idea.  We  have  cast  off  some  of  the 
externalities  of  the  religions.  But  little  is  yet  notice- 
able of  the  blessings  that  would  result  if  we  threw 
overboard  the  idea  of  religion,  of  the  stiff  breeze  that 
would  then  swell  our  sails.  Believe  me,  doctor, 
there  is  an  intrinsic  relationship  between  a  bourgeois 
and  a  Social  Democrat.  But  there  is  no  bridge  lead- 
ing from  either  of  them  to  me.  There  is  a  chasm 
between  us  —  between  the  professors  of  the  State 
and  those  of  liberty  !  " 

"  You  think  like  nature,"  said  the  other,  medita- 
tively, "  and  therefore  health  and  truth  are  on  your 
side." 

And  taking  up  the  thread  of  their  former  conver- 
sation, he  asked :  — 

"  And  was  not  your  abhorrence  aroused  when  you 
heard  of  the  throwing  of  the  bomb  ?  " 

"  No.  I  saw  in  it  only  an  act  of  justifiable  self- 
defence.  On  their  own  responsibility  the  police 
made  an  attack  upon  a  peaceable  assembly.  For 
once  their  brutality  was  punished,  while  it  usually 
goes  unpunished.  I  deplore  the  act,  not  only  as 
entirely  useless,  but  also  as  harmful.  But  still  more 


210  The  Anarchists. 

do  I  deplore  those  who  will  not  understand  that  such 
acts  are  always  only  the  outbreak  of  a  despair  which 
has  no  longer  anything  to  lose  because  everything 
has  been  taken  from  it." 

"  And  those  who  always  incite  only  others  to  vio- 
lence without  ever  taking  part  themselves,  —  what  is 
your  opinion  of  them  ?  " 

"  That  they  are  pitiable  cowards,  and  that  the  paper 
was  not  at  all  wrong  in  suggesting  some  time  ago 
that  the  man  in  New  York,  who  was  incessantly 
clamoring  for  the  head  of  some  European  prince, 
ought  to  be  sent  to  Europe  at  the  general  expense, 
to  afford  him  an  opportunity  to  get  it  there  him- 
self. .  .  ." 

Dr.  Hurt  had  again  sat  down,  and  a  grave  silence 
reigned.  They  talked  about  other  things.  Then 
Hurt  said  again :  — 

"  I  begin  to  hate  the  people.  It  is  like  a  Moloch 
that  has  opened  his  arms  and  now  devours  victim 
after  victim.  This  grown-up  child,  which  has  so  long 
been  chastised  with  the  rod,  is  suddenly  indulged  to 
a  ridiculous  degree.  It  reaches  manhood,  and  is  sur- 
prised at  the  strength  of  its  own  limbs.  When  it 
shall  have  become  fully  conscious  of  it,  it  will  trample 
on  everything  that  comes  under  its  feet.  It  has 
already  learned  all  the  attitudes  of  power :  ridiculous 
infallibility,  haughty  conceit,  narrow  self-compla- 
cency. I  tell  you,  Auban,  the  time  is  not  distant 
when  it  will  be  impossible  for  any  proud,  free,  and 
independent  spirit  to  still  call  himself  a  Socialist, 
since  he  would  be  classed  with  those  wretched  toadies 
and  worshippers  of  success,  who  even  now  lie  on 
their  knees  before  every  workingman  and  lick  his 
dirty  hands  simply  because  he  is  a  workingman ! " 


Now  Dr.  Hurt  was  excited,  while  Auban  seemed 
lost  in  a  brooding  sadness  which  was  only  intensified 
by  what  he  heard,  because  he  had  to  agree  with  it. 


The  Tragedy  of  Chicago.  211 

"  Every  age  has  its  lie,"  continued  Dr.  Hurt.  "  The 
great  lie  of  our  age  is  '  politics,'  as  that  of  the  coming 
age  will  be  '  the  people.'  All  that  is  small,  weak, 
and  not  self-reliant,  is  caught  in  its  rushing  current. 
All  men  of  '  to-day '  !  There  in  the  current  they  fight 
their  little,  worthless,  everyday  battles.  But  the 
men  of  to-morrow,  and  to  them  we  belong,  remain  on 
the  shore  or  come  back  to  it  again,  after  the  current 
has  threatened  to  devour  them  for  a  time.  And 
there,  on  the  shore  of  truth,  we  stand,  and  so  we 
want  to  let  the  daily  events  of  our  age,  whose  wit- 
nesses we  are,  pass  before  us.  Is  it  not  so?  " 

Auban  was  moved.  For  the  first  time  in  all  these 
long  years  he  had  known  him,  this  strange  and  singu- 
lar man  laid  open  his  heart  to  him,  and  showed  him 
its  scarred  wounds.  What  must  he  also  have  suffered 
before  he  became  so  firm,  so  hard,  and  so  alone  ? 

"  You  are  indeed  right,"  he  said.  "  I  too  swam 
in  the  current,  and  I  too  stand  on  the  shore.  And 
at  my  feet  and  before  my  eyes  are  drifting  the  bloody 
corpses  of  Chicago." 

"  They  are  not  the  first,  and  they  will  not  be  the 
last." 

"You  are  indeed  right,"  said  Auban  again.  "I 
was  among  those  who  struggled  in  the  current.  When 
I  was  twenty ;  when  I  knew  nothing  of  the  world ; 
when,  in  my  eyes,  some  men  were  conscious  sinners, 
others  innocent  angels ;  when  I  mistook  effects  for 
causes,  and  causes  for  effects,  —  then  they  listened  to 
me  as  I  talked  to  them.  Where  I  got  the  courage  to 
parade  my  phrases  before  those  large  audiences,  I  no 
longer  know.  I  was  proof  against  all  harm ;  I  stood 
in  the  service  of  the  cause.  How  could  I  fail  under 
such  circumstances  ?  I  derived  all  my  strength  from 
that  thought;  not  from  myself.  From  it  often  I 
drew  my  indefatigability,  my  unshaken  belief,  my 
indifference  towards  myself.  And  the  farther  I  got 
from  the  reality  of  things,  the  nearer  I  came  to  my 
hearers.  Often  I  went  farther  than  I  intended." 


212  The  Anarchists. 

"  That  was  also  the  way  of  the  leaders  of  Chicago  ; 
they  were  driven  on,  and  could  not  go  back.  They 
had  to  outdo  themselves  in  order  to  maintain  them- 
selves. That  is  so  often  the  tragic  fate  of  all  those 
who  look  to  others  for  the  measure  of  their  '  worth.'  " 

"  My  fate  would  have  been  theirs,"  said  Auban 
further.  "  However,  I  was  not  happy.  I  do  not 
believe  that  self-sacrifice  can  make  us  truly  happy. 
—  And  I  should  not  have  liked  to  die  so  —  I  felt  it 
again  to-day.  No ;  I  want  to  battle  and  conquer  with- 
out receiving  a  wound  !  " 

"  Many  will  say  that  is  very  convenient  —  " 

"  Let  them  say  so.  I  say,  it  is  more  difficult  than 
to  sacrifice  one's  self  to  the  delight  of  our  enemies 
and  to  no  good  of  our  friends.  And  do  you  want 
to  know  what  brought  me  to  this  perception?  A 
smile,  a  scornful,  frigid  smile.  It  was  on  the  occasion 
of  my  speech  before  the  judges.  I  hurled  truths  at 
them  that  fairly  startled  some,  while  they  enraged 
others.  I  spoke  of  the  rights  of  man  that  were  mine, 
and  of  the  rights  of  might  which  were  theirs  ;  in  short, 
it  was  a  pompous,  passionate,  and  entirely  uncommon 
speech  wholly  without  policy  and  of  course  also 
without  any  purpose,  the  childish  speech  of  an  ideal- 
istic man.  It  is  always  ridiculous  to  approach  men 
with  ethical  commands,  especially  such  half-wild, 
unreasonable,  ignorant  men  who  derive  all  their  wis- 
dom from  paragraphs  and  formulas.  But  I  had  not 
learned  that  then.  While  I  was  speaking  so — I 
really  spoke  more  to  those  who  did  not  hear  me  — 
I  noticed  on  the  shrewd  face  of  an  officer  a  smile, 
a  scoffing,  pitiful,  cutting  smile,  which  said :  You 
fool,  what  do  we  care  about  your  words,  so  long  as 
they  do  not  become  deeds  !  — 

"  But  no  ;  I  must  correct  myself.  I  did  not  see  the 
smile,  for  I  kept  on  talking  unconcerned.  Only 
later,  in  prison,  I  remembered  that  I  had  felt  it,  and 
then  it  pursued  me  a  long  time  ;  I  can  see  it  to-day 
if  I  close  my  eyes ! 


The  Tragedy  of  Chicago.  213 

"  It  grinned  at  me  through  the  cracks  of  the  prison 
wall.  It  was  an  enemy  that  I  had  to  overcome. 
But  I  saw  it  was  not  one  that  allowed  itself  to  be 
put  to  flight  by  words.  There  was  but  one  means  to 
lay  it :  to  acquire  a  like  smile.  Only  against  it 
would  the  other  be  powerless.  I  acquired  it.  I  had 
time,  and  everything  I  had  experienced  and  seen 
seemed  changed  in  the  light  of  this  new  way  of  look- 
ing at  things.  I  see  men  as  they  are  ;  the  world  as 
it  is.  No  longer  people  smile  at  me." 

"  It  was  certainly  the  greatest  deed  of  your  life, 
Auban,  that  you  had  the  strength  to  tear  yourself 
away  and  get  on  your  own  feet ;  but  the  Com- 
munists, —  is  it  conceivable  that  most  of  them  speak 
with  indignation  about  the  petitions  for  pardon  of 
some  of  the  condemned?  To  see  treason,  a  debase- 
ment in  the  signing  of  a  bit  of  paper  with  which  I 
can  save  my  life  out  of  the  hands  of  my  murderer ! 
I  should  sign  a  thousand  such  scraps  of  paper  and 
laugh  at  the  blockhead  who  expected  '  honesty '  of 
me,  while  he  got  me  into  his  power  by  cunning  and 
force.  Auban,  these  Communists  are  fanatics ;  they 
are  sick,  confused,  afflicted  with  moral  spooks  — " 

"  I  said  what  I  had  to  say  last  Sunday,"  Auban 
remarked  calmly. 

"  And  all  to  no  purpose.  No,  those  people  must 
grow  wise  through  experience.  Let  them  alone." 

"  The  experience  will  be  a  terrible  one.  It  is  sad 
for  me  to  see  how  the  very  people  who  have  already 
suffered  so  much,  cause  new  sufferings  to  themselves." 

Again  there  was  a  digression  in  the  conversation, 
which  during  the  following  hour  turned  on  things 
far  from  Chicago. 

The  doctor  had  filled  the  room  with  smoke  which 
he  sent  in  short,  rapid  puffs  from  his  pipe,  never  let- 
ting it  go  out.  The  plain  severity  of  the  room  was 
tempered  by  the  rays  of  the  lamp  and  the  flames  of 
the  fire.  A  breath  of  comfort  almost  filled  it  as  the 
hours  wore  on. 


214  The  Anarchists. 

"  Do  you  know  the  legend  of  the  emperor's  new 
clothes?"  asked  Auban.  "It  is  so  with  the  State, 
too.  Most  people,  I  doubt  not,  are  inwardly  con- 
vinced that  they  could  get  along  much  better  without 
it.  They  pay  unwillingly  the  taxes  which  they  in- 
stinctively feel  as  a  robbery  of  their  labor.  But  the 
notion  that  '  it  must  be  so  because  it  has  always  been 
so '  prevents  them  from  speaking  the  word  that  would 
save  them ;  they  look  at  one  another,  doubtful  and 
hesitating.  But  it  requires  all  the  ingenuousness  of 
an  unspoiled  character  to  overthrow  this  artificial 
barrier,  the  source  of  all  our  external  misery,  with 
the  words  :  *  Why,  he  has  nothing  on  ! '  The  whole 
thing  is  a  piece  of  clear  humbug  of  the  most  stupid 
kind, — and  the  saving  word  has  been  found;  it  is 
Anarchy ! " 

Auban  continued,  as  his  listener  remained  in  silent 
meditation :  — 

"  Or  let  us  take  the  following  example  :  It  is  on 
the  morning  of  a  battle.  Two  armies  are  facing  each 
other,  brought  together  for  mutual  destruction.  In 
an  hour  the  slaughter  is  to  begin.  How  many  on 
either  side,  do  you  think,  if  the  individual  could  have 
his  free  choice,  would  remain  to  become  murderers ; 
and  how  many  would  throw  aside  the  weapons  forced 
on  them  and  return  home  to  the  peaceful  employ- 
ments of  their  life  ?  All  would  return,  would  they 
not  ?  And  only  the  small  number  of  those  would  per- 
haps remain  who  make  of  war  and  the  exercise  of 
power  a  calling.  And,  nevertheless,  all  the  others 
act  against  their  own  will,  their  reason,  their  better 
knowledge,  because  things  have  not  become  clear  to 
them.  They  must;  for  the  curse  of  illusion  —  a  some- 
thing, something  intangible,  something  incomprehen- 
sible, something  terrible,  —  urges  them  on.  .  .  .  Tell 
me,  doctor,  what  it  is,  that  dreadful  something  ?  " 

"  Habit,  ignorance,  and  cowardice,"  said  Hurt. 

"  Oh,  I  do  not  object  to  war !  Do  not  think  that !  " 
exclaimed  Auban,  and  heaped  up  the  papers  on  his 


The  Tragedy  of  Chicago.  215 

writing-desk  that  the  other  might  not  see  how  excited 
he  was  growing.  "Not  in  the  least.  There  have 
always  been  rowdies  and  brutes.  But  let  them  fight 
out  their  battles  and  quarrels  among  themselves,  and 
not  compel  other  entirely  innocent  people  who  prefer 
to  live  in  peace  to  take  part  in  their  brutal  brawls 
under  the  lying  pretence  that  it  is  for  their  own  inter- 
est to  mutually  murder  each  other  in  the  name  of  the 
'  holy  war  for  the  fatherland '  and  similar  nonsense  ! 
I  do  not  object  to  war,"  he  exclaimed  once  more, 
"  but  let  it  be  fought  by  those  who  want  it.  So  much 
the  better  —  pounce  upon  each  other,  you  brutal 
butchers,  tear  yourselves  into  pieces,  exterminate  each 
other ;  the  earth  will  breathe  a  sigh  of  relief  when  it 
is  rid  of  you  !  " 

"But  for  the  present  we  are  still  sitting  in  the 
cages  of  our  States,  cowering  in  the  corners,  mutually 
watching  and  observing  each  other,  always  on  the 
alert,  pressing  against  the  bars  of  the  grating,  growl- 
ing at  each  other,  until  we  grasp  each  other  by  the 
throat  because  there  is  not  room  enough  for  us,  and 
the  food  falls  too  unequally  to  our  lots,"  said  the 
doctor,  sarcastically. 

Auban  replied  in  the  same  tone. 

"  That  is  the  struggle  for  existence,  my  friend ; 
the  strong  crush  the  weak ;  —  thus  nature  has  willed 

it  i" 

"  Yes,  that  phrase,  the  catchword  of  a  science  not 
understood,  came  very  opportunely  for  them ! " 

"  It  serves  them  as  an  apology  for  their  despotic 
tyranny  and  the  compression  of  nature  within  the 
unnatural  limits  of  the  compulsory  organization  of 
the  State  and  the  stupid  laws  which  they  consider 
infallible,  although  they  themselves  made  them.  It 
is  always  the  same :  labor  may  compete  until  it  per- 
ishes in  the  midst  of  the  superabundance  it  has  cre- 
ated ;  capital  is  exempt  from  competition." 

At  Auban's  words  Hurt  had  again  suddenly  become 
very  excited, 


216  The  Anarchists. 

"I  can  tolerate  anything,  only  not  that  science, 
clear,  confident,  relentless,  incorruptible  science,  is 
placed  in  the  service  of  those  swindlers  of  power 
and  the  '  existing  order,'  and  thus  falsified ! "  he 
exclaimed. 

Auban  continued,  sarcastically :  — 

"  And  what  splendid  specimens  of  the  genus  man 
survive  as  the  fittest  in  '  that  struggle  for  existence ' ! 
For  example :  Here  is  one  of  the  Upper  Ten,  a  mem- 
ber of  thejeunesse  dorSe,  a  tall  hat,  a  monocle,  buckled 
shoes.  He  does  not  do  a  stroke  of  work.  But  his 
capital  works  for  him.  It  yields  him  annually  one 
thousand  pounds.  He  is  lazy,  stupid,  without  inter- 
ests, a  wreck  at  thirty. 

"  On  the  other  hand,  there  are  a  hundred  working- 
men,  young  fellows,  energetic,  fresh,  full  of  courage 
and  the  will  to  put  their  powers  to  use ;  they  are 
prevented  from  doing  as  they  would  like.  Every- 
thing is  closed  against  them.  They  flag,  grow  tired, 
get  dull,  succumb.  When  they  die,  their  life  has 
been  nothing  but  work  and  sleep.  They  finished  the 
former  only  to  lie  down  to  the  latter ;  and  they  rose 
from  sleep  only  to  go  to  work. 

"  Some  have  the  means  not  to  work ;  others  have 
not  the  means  to  work.  Thus  the  vampire  sucks  up 
one  after  another:  he  is  the  product  of  the  squan- 
dered labor  of  a  hundred  persons.  A  sickly,  unpro- 
ductive life  has  simply  destroyed  a  hundred  healthy, 
productive  lives.  The  former  has  been  enervated  by 
idleness,  the  latter  exhausted  by  overwork.  . 

"  What  do  they  call  it,  eh  ?  —  Struggle  for  exist- 
ence ?  Divine  wisdom  ?  The  order  of  nature  ?  "  — 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  looked  at  the  doctor, 
who  was  blowing  great  clouds  of  smoke  from  his  pipe. 
Then  he  continued :  — 

"  Or,  again,  —  another  picture,  equally  edifying. 
'  Her  Ladyship  ! '  During  the  day  she  reads  novels, 
or  meddles  with  the  work  of  her  '  domestics,'  of  which 
she  knows  nothing.  In  the  evening  she  drives  to 


The  Tragedy  of  Chicago.  217 

the  ball.  •  What  she  wears  on  her  body,  the  diamond 
ornaments,  are  in  themselves  without  any  value  what- 
ever—  " 

"In  itself  nothing  "has  value,"  Hurt  interrupted 
him. 

"  But  it  represents  a  fortune  in  value,"  Auban  con- 
tinued, unconcerned. 

But  he  was  again  interrupted. 

"  Ah,  let  us  have  done  with  that,  Auban ! "  mut- 
tered Hurt.  "  As  long  as  the  workingmen  will  not 
become  more  sensible,  such  lives,  and  even  worse  ones, 
will  be  the  inevitable,  entirely  natural  result." 

It  had  grown  late.  The  atmosphere  of  the  room 
was  oppressive  and  hot.  The  fire  was  weary.  Hurt 
looked  at  his  watch.  But  before  he  rose,  the  secret, 
bashful,  hot,  almost  reluctant  love  of  this  peculiar 
man  for  all  the  oppressed  and  suffering  burst  forth 
suddenly  and  vehemently  like  a  flame  in  angry  words 
which  passionately  dropped  from  his  lips : 

"  The  fools  !  Will  they  never  grow  sensible  ?  — 
To  throw  bombs,  what  nonsense !  —  To  make  it  as 
easy  as  possible  for  the  governments  to  destroy  them ! 
—  But  it  seems  to  me  that  these  people  make  a  point 
of  excelling  each  other  in  sacrifices  and  of  seeking 
their  pride  not  in  victory,  but  in  defeat !  Sacrifice 
upon  sacrifice  !  No,  I  do  not  want  to  have  anything 
more  to  do  with  them ;  if  they  do  not  want  to  become 
sensible,  they  need  not  I  " 

He  had  risen.  Turning  towards  Auban,  whose  sad 
eyes  seemed  riveted  on  the  table  on  which  the  crum- 
pled newspapers  lay  like  an  unsolved  problem,  he 
added,  in  an  apparently  lighter  vein :  — 

"  You  must  not  expect  too  much  of  me,  Auban.  I 
am  a  daily  witness  of  death-bed  scenes  —  what  is  the 
life  of  a  few  individuals  who  are  forcibly  torn  away 
against  the  crowds  whom  no  one  counts  and  no  one 
mentions,  but  who  are  also  only  victims  of  the  others, 
although  they  never  tried  to  defend  themselves !  " 

He  extended  his  hand  to  him. 


218  The  Anarchists. 

"  Read  history.  Open  it  where  you  like.  Every- 
where the  conquerors  and  everywhere  the  vanquished. 
The  thing  has  always  been  the  same,  only  the  num- 
bers were  different.  Whether  they  fall,  shot  on  the 
battlefield,  starved  at  the  street  corner,  choked  on  the 
gallows — is  it  not  one  and  the  same  thing?  Not  to 
fall,  to  conquer  —  it  is  for  that  we  are  here  !  " 

Auban  could  not  answer.  He  was  seized  by  a  rest- 
less fear  of  the  night  that  was  coining,  in  which  he 
was  to  remain  alone  with  himself. 

Hurt  was  getting  ready  to  go.  But  when  he  had 
already  taken  hold  of  the  door-knob,  he  turned  once 
more  towards  Auban,  stepped  up  to  him,  and  said  :  — 

"  However,  I  wish  to  thank  you.  I  wanted  to  do 
it  long  ago.  You  know  I  am  an  old  sceptic.  I  be- 
lieve in  nothing,  and  all  Utopias  are  an  abomination 
to  me.  Consequently,  I  do  not  believe  in  liberty  as 
an  ideal  either.  But  you,  you  have  had  such  a  way 
of  explaining  to  me  liberty  as  a  business,  that  I  want 
to  tell  you,  in  case  you  care  to  hear  it :  in  your  sense 
I  am  an  Anarchist !  " 

With  that  he  firmly  pressed  his  hand,  and  the  eyes 
of  the  two  men  met  for  a  moment ;  now  they  knew 
each  other.  It  was  not  a  union  sealed  by  blood  into 
which  they  entered.  They  gave  no  promise  that  was 
binding  on  them.  They  assumed  no  obligations 
towards  each  other. 

But  they  said  to  each  other  by  their  looks:  We 
know  what  we  want.  Perhaps  the  time  is  not  too 
distant  when  we  shall  feel  strong  enough  to  hold  our 
ground  against  authority.  Then  we  may  stand  to- 
gether. Until  then,  vigilance  and  patience  !  .  .  . 


Auban  was  alone.  And  he  arose  with  a  violent 
movement  and  paced  up  and  down  his  room  for  cer- 
tainly an  hour,  while  the  fire  entirely  went  out. 

When  fatigue  overcame  him,  it  was  still  ringing  in 
his  ears  again :  Read  history ! 


The  Tragedy  of  Chicago.  219 

Without  choice  he  drew  forth  the  next  volume,  and 
read  through  the  night  until  dawn. 

Up  to  his  knees  he  waded  through  the  blood  of  the 
past.  He  saw  the  rise  and  fall  of  nations.  He  saw 
the  responsibility  for  their  life  rolled  on  the  shoulders 
of  a  few,  and  he  saw  those  few  break  down  beneath 
its  weight,  or  play  with  it  like  the  child  with  his 
ball.  .  .  . 

He  saw  how  those  who  "  wished  the  good "  pro- 
duced the  bad :  error. 

He  saw  how  those  who  "strove  after  the  bad" 
brought  about  the  good :  destroyed  error. 

He  saw  how  everything  that  had  been  could  not 
have  been  different,  precisely  because  it  had  been  so 
and  not  different.  It  was  not  for  us  to  mourn  and 
to  curse,  therefore,  but  to  understand. 

To  avoid  recognized  errors,  —  such  the  watchword, 
such  the  use,  such  the  blessing  of  history,  such  its 
lesson.  .  .  . 

Auban  read.  And  over  the  downfall  and  ruins  of 
nations  he  forgot  about  Chicago.  .  .  . 

Then  sleep  closed  his  eyes.  Gently  it  drew  the 
book  from  between  his  fingers.  It  slipped  on  the 
floor. 

The  light,  however,  continued  to  burn. 

Heavy  dreams  sank  upon  the  sleeper.  Restlessly 
his  breast  rose  and  fell,  and  the  pain  at  other  times 
concealed  by  the  sharp,  hard  lines  about  the  mouth 
had  crept  from  its  hiding-place,  and  now  lay  on  his 
thin  cheeks.  His  pale  lips  were  slightly  open. 

Thus  the  night  came  to  an  end,  the  dreaded  night. 

When  Auban  awoke  morning  had  come.  He 
changed  his  dress. 

Then  he  took  up  the  newspapers.  He  knew  what 
he  should  read.  When  he  saw  how  the  hand  trem- 
bled with  which  he  turned  the  paper,  he  paced  up 
and  down  a  few  times  before  he  began.  He  wanted 
to  be  strong. 


220  The  Anarchists. 

Then  he  read,  without  haste,  pale,  with  a  gloomy- 
calm.     But  his  heart  stood  still. 


It  was  the  last  act  of  the  tragedy  of  Chicago :  the 
morning  of  the  eleventh  of  November. 

The  city  is  in  a  state  of  siege,  every  public  build- 
ing is  under  guard ;  everything  is  feared  ;  above  all, 
incendiarism ;  the  military  is  concentrated,  the  fire 
department  called  out ;  at  the  hotels  every  arrival  is 
watched ;  the  jurymen,  the  judges,  the  State's  attor- 
ney, the  chiefs  of  the  police,  are  placed  under  pro- 
tection. .  .  .  The  larger  factories  are  closed.  .  .  . 
The  jail  is  surrounded  by  an  impenetrable  line  of 
armed  policemen.  ...  A  tumult  arises :  a  despairing 
woman  wanders  along  the  living  wall  with  her  weep- 
ing children,  and  attempts  in  frenzied  fear  to  reach 
her  husband  before  it  is  too  late.  She  is  seized  by 
brutal  hands,  and  must  pass  the  most  terrible  hours 
of  her  life  inside  the  stone  walls  of  a  prison  cell.  .  .  . 

Silence,  the  silence  of  fear,  reigns  again.  In  the 
neighboring  streets  men  are  jostling  each  other. 
Where  they  form  groups,  they  again  separate.  They 
are  paralyzed  under  the  burden  of  those  hours.  .  .  . 

In  the  interior  of  the  jail :  — 

The  condemned  have  awaked.  They  write  their 
last  letters ;  they  are  even  now  molested  by  the  con- 
temptible obtrusiveness  of  a  clergyman  whom  they 
decline  to  see ;  they  take  their  last  meal ;  across  the 
distance  of  their  cells  they  exchange  their  last  words 
of  friendship  and  hope  in  behalf  of  the  cause  for 
which  they  die,  and  their  emotions  find  expression 
in  strophes  which  their  memory  awakens  in  them,  and 
whose  unfamiliar  sound  echoes  powerfully  along  the 
rigid  walls : — 

Ein  Fluch  dem  Gotzen,  zu  dem  wir  gebeten  — 
Der  uns  geafft,  gef oppt  und  genarrt  — 

Ein  Fluch  dem  Konig,  dem  Konig  der  Reichen,  — 
Der  uas  wie  Hunde  erschiessen  lasst  — 


The  Tragedy  of  Chicago.  221 

Ein  Fluch  dem  f alschen  Vaterlande  — 
Wo  nur  gedeihen  Schmach  und  Schande.  .  .  . 
And:  — 

Poor  creatures  !  Afraid  of  the  darkness 
Who  groan  at  the  anguish  to  come  ? 
How  silent  I  go  to  my  home  ! 
Cease  your  sorrowful  bell  — 
I  am  well ! 

And  that  immortal  song  in  which  all  four  join,  the 
Marseillaise  of  Labor,  of  labor  struggling  for  emanci- 
pation — 

Von  uns  wird  einst  die  Nachwelt  zeugen  ! 
Schon  blickt  auf  uns  die  Gegeuwart.  .  .  . 

Yes ;  the  present  which  was  willing  to  pave  the 
way  for  a  brighter  future,  not  the  present  which  in 
impotent  blindness  was  about  to  revive  a  buried  past, 
had  fixed  its  gaze  upon  them  in  this  hour,  in  pain 
and  in  sorrow.  .  .  . 

The  sheriff  appears.  The  condemned  embrace 
each  other,  press  each  other's  hands,  which  are 
shackled ;  the  death  warrants,  dead  words  with  which 
authority  seeks  to  justify  its  murder,  are  read. 

The  death  march  begins. 

They  pass  through  the  door  which  leads  into  the 
yard  of  the  jail ;  the  gallows  rises  before  their  eyes. 
One  after  another  they  ascend  its  steps,  pale,  but 
undaunted.  White  caps  are  drawn  over  their  heads. 
In  this  last  moment  their  voices  are  heard  from 
behind  the  coverings :  — 

"  There  will  be  a  time  when  our  silence  will  be 
more  powerful  than  the  voices  you  strangle  to-day  ! " 
exclaims  the  first. 

"  Hurrah  for  Anarchy  !  "  accompanied  by  a  laugh, 
the  second.  And :  — 

"  Hurrah  for  Anarchy !  This  is  the  happiest 
moment  of  my  life  !  "  falls  in  the  third. 

Finally  the  fourth  and  last :  — 

"  Will  I  be  allowed  to  speak,  O  women  and  men 
of  my  dear  America  ?  "  — 


222  The  Anarchists. 

The  sheriff  gave  the  signal.     Then  once  more :  — 
"  Let  me  speak,  sheriff !     Let  the  voice  of  the  peo- 
ple be  heard  !     O  — " 

The  trap  falls.  .  .  .     And  cowards  see  how  heroes 
die. 


So  far  Auban  was  able  to  read ;  the  following  sen- 
tence his  eyes  just  grazed,  for  suddenly  the  jail 
yard  of  Chicago  rose  before  him  in  tangible  clear- 
ness :  he  sees  the  crowd  of  two  hundred  persons  that 
fills  it,  the  twelve  of  the  jury,  the  higher  court  offi- 
cers, the  guard,  the  newspaper  reporters,  —  a  herd  of 
cowardly  hirelings  ;  he  sees  the  gallows,  the  four  men 
whose  features  he  had  so  often  seen  in  the  picture, 
erect,  defiant,  great ;  and  he  sees  their  dying,  the 
convulsive  movements  of  their  death  struggle  which 
lasts  fourteen  minutes.  .  .  .  Fourteen  minutes! 
The  butcher  kills  his  cattle  at  one  blow,  the  robber 
his  victim  at  one  stroke  ;  only  these  murderers  take  a 
horrible  delight  in  the  "  victory  of  justice,"  which  they 
themselves  personify,  and  fortify  their  own  cowardice 
behind  the  word  with  which  authority  has  hitherto 
always  justified  all  crimes :  "  His  will  be  done.  .  .  .  ' 

So  clearly,  like  a  vision,  the  end  of  the  tragedy 
stood  before  Auban's  eyes  that  he  could  no  longer 
endure  it,  and  let  his  brow  sink  forward  on  his  arms 
stretched  across  the  table.  So  he  lay  a  long  time. 
For  he  had  to  fight  down  everything  again  that  had 
newly  risen  in  him,  of  pain,  anger,  wrath,  of  sorrow 
and  of  hatred. 

When  he  arose  he  was  again  himself.  But  he 
again  paced  up  and  down  the  length  and  breadth  of 
his  room  with  his  restless  steps. 

The  tragedy  of  Chicago  ! 

What  an  audience  !  All  mankind  who  call  them- 
selves civilized !  Not  one  who  does  not  take  a  part ; 
all  compelled  to  make  a  choice.  .  .  . 

On  the  one   side :    the   thirst  for  blood  satisfied, 


The  Tragedy  of  Chicago.  223 

beastly  joy  ;  the  jubilant  victory  of  authority ;  a  sigh 
of  relief  after  danger  passed  ;  sordid  philistinism 
boasting  over  the  triumph  of  order ;  morality  priding 
itself  upon  its  own  narrowness ;  awakening  compunc- 
tions of  conscience  ;  new  fear  of  coming  events ;  and 
the  first  gleams  of  understanding. 

On  the  other:  cries  of  horror,  strangled  by  fear 
and  by  awe ;  impotent  rage  and  growling  wrath ; 
shame  of  one's  own  cowardice,  anger  and  pain  at 
that  of  the  others ;  bitterness,  sinking  to  the  very 
bottom  of  all  hearts  ;  dull  surrender  to  the  inevita- 
ble ;  a  thousand  hopes  of  earthly  justice  buried,  a 
thousand  new  ones  risen  in  the  final  victory  of  the 
cause  that  has  just  been  baptized  in  blood  ;  the  thirst 
for  revenge  on  the  day  of  reckoning  intensified  to  an 
intolerable  degree  ;  sentimental  sorrow ;  and  the  first 
gleams  of  understanding. 

All  the  slumbering  feelings  of  which  the  heart  is 
capable  aroused !  All  the  passions  called  from  their 
hiding-places,  struggling  in  the  frantic  rage  of  death! 
All  deliberation,  all  calm  reason,  obscured  by  the 
clouds  of  smoke  and  blood,  —  these  were  the  fruits  of 
this  murder.  .  .  . 

The  tragedy  of  Chicago  ! 

What  scenes  !     What  changes  in  them  ! 

In  the  first  act :  — 

The  trembling  of  the  earth  which  presages  the  out- 
break of  the  volcano. 

The  hosts  gather  on  both  sides  for  the  conflict. 

Deliberating,  rousing  themselves,  resolving,  sus- 
pecting the  danger,  calling,  all  forces  to  aid,  arming 
themselves. 

The  noise  of  the  battle-cry :  Eight  hours ! 

The  first  collisions:  the  whiz  of  the  bullets,  the 
gnashing  of  teeth,  the  howl  of  rage,  the  cries  of  indig- 
nation, the  groans  of  the  dying,  the  weeping  of 
women. 

Over  countless  glowing  heads  and  feverish  hearts 
the  uproar  of  feverish  words  full  of  fire  and  flame. 


224  The  Anarchists. 

A  thundering  crash:   smoke  and  shrieks.     Death 
and  destruction. 

The  mad  dance  of  the  passions  rushes  past. 


In  the  second  act :  — 

After  the  noisy,  open  battle  on  the  public  plain, 
the  quiet,  hidden,  but  far  more  terrible  struggle  in 
the  "  domain  of  the  law." 

Spacious  court-rooms  and  narrow  prison-cells.  Iron 
gratings  which  separate  friend  from  friend,  and  high 
prison  walls,  so  high  that  the  sun  itself  cannot  scale 
them.  ...  O  golden  sun  of  liberty  —  not  to  see 
you  for  eighteen  months,  and  then  without  having 
caught  one  of  your  rays  to  sink  into  eternal  night. 


And  finally  in  the  last  and  third  act :  — 


The  curtain  had  dropped.  But  the  tragedy  was 
not  at  an  end. 

No;  those  who  had  put  it  on  the  stage  had  for- 
gotten the  epilogue ! 

An  epilogue,  an  unexpected  epilogue,  had  to  follow 
with  inevitable  necessity.  It  was  the  propaganda 
which  this  damnable  deed  produced :  the  echo  which 
the  history  of  these  lives  and  deaths  would  call  forth 
as  an  answer  in  countless  still  slumbering  hearts. 
Thousands  would  ask :  "  Why  were  these  men  forced 
to  die?"  Thousands  would  answer:  "For  the  cause 
of  the  oppressed."  And  again:  "We  are  the  op- 
pressed, every  hour  tells  us  that.  But  is  it  not  our 
destiny  to  suffer  ?  "  And  again  the  answer :  "  No ;  it 
is  your  destiny  to  be  happy.  The  days  of  your  eman- 
cipation have  come.  Those  men  died  for  your  happi- 


The  Tragedy  of  Chicago.  225 

ness.  Read  their  speeches  —  here  they  are.  Learn 
from  them  who  they  were,  what  they  wanted,  that 
they  were  no  murderers,  but  heroes."  And  the  op- 
pressed are  awakening.  They  lift  their  tired  brows, 
and  the  chains  on  their  hands  rattle.  And  now  they 
hear  their  rattle.  Then  rage  seizes  them,  they  revolt, 
and  the  chains  break.  And  swinging  the  iron  weap- 
ons high  in  the  air,  they  pounce  upon  their  oppressors, 
seize  and  strangle  all  crying  for  mercy.  Their  hands 
are  about  to  relax,  but  a  voice  calls :  "  Chicago ! " 
Only  this  one  word :  "  Chicago  !  "  And  all  thoughts 
of  mercy  vanish.  The  greatest  conflict  the  trembling 
earth  has  ever  seen  is~  fought  to  an  end  without 
mercy.  .  .  . 

To  the  graves  of  their  dead  go  the  victors.  They 
uncover  their  heads  and  say:  "You  are  avenged. 
Sleep  in  peace." 

And  returning  home  they  teach  their  boys  who 
those  were  whom  they  so  honored,  how  they  lived 
and  how  they  died. 

That  would  be  the  epilogue  of  the  tragedy  of 
Chicago.  .  .  . 


Bent  over  the  crumpled  newspapers  lay  Auban, 
covering  them  with  his  arms  and  his  brow,  as  if  he 
could  thus  choke  what  rose  from  them,  stupefying, 
like  the  vapor  of  fresh  blood.  .  .  .  His  beating  heart 
cried  for  a  word  of  deliverance  from  this  hour. 

"  Folly !  "  his  reason  whispered  to  him. 

But  he  felt  that  it  was  too  cheap  a  word.  And  so 
it  died  on  his  lips. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  PROPAGANDA   OF   COMMUNISM. 

TRUPP  was  on  the  way  to  his  Club. 

It  was  the  evening  of  the  day  on  which  the  Lon- 
don newspapers  had  published  the  detailed  accounts 
of  the  murder  in  Chicago,  and  since  Trupp  had  read 
them,  he  had  wandered  —  as  if  impelled  by  feelings 
for  which  he  had  no  name,  and  as  if  hounded  and 
pursued  by  invisible  enemies  whom  he  did  not  know 
—  through  the  infinite  sea  of  houses,  without  aim, 
without  purpose,  in  all  directions,  without  knowing 
what  he  did. 

He  saw  neither  the  streets  through  which  he 
passed,  nor  the  streams  of  humanity  through  which 
he  forced  his  way.  .  .  .  Where  he  had  been,  he 
knew  not.  Once  the  Thames  had  lain  before  him, 
and,  leaning  against  the  railing  of  a  bridge,  he  had 
stood  a  whole  hour,  gazing  fixedly  and  abstractedly 
down  upon  the  black  tide  of  the  river;  several  times 
he  had  crossed  the  main  arteries  of  traffic,  and  then 
each  time  instinctively  sought  quieter  and  more 
secluded  streets,  where  nothing  would  interfere  with 
the  whirling  thoughts  of  his  over-excited  brain.  .  .  . 

He  had  not  eaten  anything  the  whole  day  except 
a  piece  of  bread  which  he  had  bought  almost  uncon- 
sciously while  passing  a  bakery,  and  not  drunk 
anything.  .  .  . 

He  could  not  even  have  told  what  he  had  been 
thinking.  In  rapid  succession  thought  had  followed 
thought  in  his  brain,  forming  an  immense  chain 
whose  countless  links  all  bore  one  and  the  same 
mark :  Chicago ! 

226 


The  Propaganda  of  Communism.  227 

As  often  as  he  had  looked  up,  and  his  eyes  met  the 
indifferent  faces  of  men,  an  unconquerable  rage  had 
risen  within  him  to  jump  at  their  throats  in  order  to 
shake  them  out  of  their  calm  with  brutal  force.  But 
when  with  bent  head  he  had  sauntered  along,  noth- 
ing had  told  of  the  storm  that  stirred  up  his  whole 
being  to  its  innermost  depths  and  drove  waves  of 
impotent  rage  to  the  surface.  .  .  . 

Only  when  the  shadows  of  night  fell  did  he  awake: 
as  out  of  a  dull  stupor,  as  out  of  an  opium  sleep, 
only  that  his  dreams  had  not  been  sweet  and  enticing, 
but  torturing  and  bitter,  like  the  iron  grasp  of  a 
fist.  .  .  . 

Then  only  had  he  looked  about,  for  he  had  no  idea 
where  he  was.  He  was  in  Edgware  Road,  in  the 
north  of  Hyde  Park  —  still  far  enough  from  the  Club, 
half  an  hour  and  longer,  but  he  might  have  found 
himself  in  the  farthermost  suburbs  of  Highgate  or 
Brixton,  hours  away  from  Tottenham,  and  unable  to 
reach  the  Club  that  evening. 

Still  half  stupefied  by  the  blow  of  this  terrible  day, 
but  not  yet  feeling  anything  of  the  death-like  fatigue 
which  must  have  taken  hold  of  his  body  after  the 
day's  mad  walk,  he  started  on  his  way  with  aching 
feet,  his  entire  body  covered  with  perspiration  and 
trembling  with  cold  in  the  chilly  evening  air. 

He  knew  now  exactly  what  route  to  take,  and  he 
was  careful  to  choose  the  nearest. 

Two  feelings  had  in  these  last  two  days  incessantly 
battled  within  him. 

One  was  that  of  deepest  dejection.  .  .  .  The 
murder  of  Chicago  had  been  carried  out  without  any 
attempt  on  the  part  of  the  comrades  to  prevent  it. 
Or  if  not  to  prevent  it,  at  least  to  interrupt  it.  He 
had  indeed  never  looked  forward  to  such  an  event 
with  absolute  confi<?ence,  for  he  knew  but  too  well 
how  rarely  the  performance  agrees  with  the  promise ; 
but  nevertheless,  this  unclouded  victory  of  authority 
was  a  terrible  blow  to  him. 


228  The  Anarchists. 

The  other  was  a  feeling  of  satisfaction  when  he 
thought  of  the  inexhaustible  fountain  of  the  propa- 

ginda  that  would  flow  from  these  martyr  deaths, 
hicago  had  become  the  Golgotha  of  workingmen. 
Eternally,  as  here  the  cross,  would  there  the  gallows 
rise.  .  .  . 

But  with  the  instinct  which  a  twenty  years'  par- 
ticipation in  the  Socialistic  movement  had  given 
him,  he  suspected  also  that  the  question  of  Anarch- 
ism had  now  been  placed  in  a  different  light,  where 
it  would  henceforth  stand  out  clearly  for  all  thought- 
ful men :  in  the  light  of  day.  Much  that  had  hitherto 
remained  doubtful  —  covered  by  the  veil  of  a  mysteri- 
ous and  for  most  people  inaccessible  reserve  —  had 
now  to  be  settled.  A  temporary  lull  in  the  propa- 
ganda was  quite  inevitable.  The  lost  time  would 
again  be  made  up  —  doubtless.  But  above  the  door- 
way of  the  coming  years  was  graven  for  him  and  his 
comrades:  discouragement,  lethargy,  disaffection! 

All  that,  but  also  many  other  things,  filled  him 
with  a  leaden  despondency.  Foremost,  the  position 
of  Auban.  He  no  longer  understood  his  friend.  His 
motives,  his  aims,  had  become  incomprehensible  to 
him. 

That  he  still  agreed  with  him  in  regard  to  the 
means,  as  he  believed,  held  them  together. 

But  how  was  there  to  be  any  agreement  between 
them  henceforth,  after  Auban  had  taken  up  the  defence 
of  what  he,  the  Communist,  regarded  as  the  ultimate 
cause  of  all  misery  and  imperfection:  private  prop- 
erty? 

No  doubt  could  rise  in  regard  to  Auban 's  perfect 
honesty.  It  would  have  been  ridiculous.  Auban 
wanted  liberty.  He  wanted  also  the  liberty  of  labor. 
He  loved  the  workingmen.  He  had  given  a  thousand 
proofs  of  it.  Their  interests  w»e  his. 

Such  love  never  dies.     Trupp  knew  that. 

But  for  all  that,  he  did  not  understand  him.  He 
would  never  understand  him.  Never  would  he  be 


The  Propaganda  of  Communism.  229 

able  to  see  in  private  property  anything  but  the 
stronghold  of  the  enemy.  And  on  its  battlements 
stood  Auban,  his  friend,  the  comrade  of  so  many 
years ;  he  could  not  grasp  the  thought !  .  .  . 

Then  there  were  the  personal  wranglings  and 
misunderstandings  in  his  own  camp,  in  the  group 
to  which  he  belonged.  There  was  no  end  to  them. 
They  had  always  existed  as  long  as  he  could  remem- 
ber, and  they  had  never  lost  any  of  the  repugnance 
for  him  with  which  they  had  paralyzed  his  best 
powers  since  he  came  to  London.  His  comrades 
were  too  indolent,  too  inactive,  too  undecided  for 
him.  In  these  latter  years  he  had  immeasurably 
increased  the  demands  he  made  on  himself  and  on 
others.  Now  everything  disappointed  him;  none 
of  his  expectations  were  henceforth  satisfied. 

Nothing  came  up  to  them.  He  himself  no  longer 
had  any  other  thought  than  that  of  his  cause.  That 
idea  claimed  all  his  thought  and  action.  It  pursued 
him  during  the  toilsome  labor  of  his  days  with  the 
persistent  tenacity  with  which  usually  nothing  but 
love  dominates  the  nature  of  man ;  it  kept  him  awake 
till  late  in  the  night,  and  frightened  away  all  fatigue 
over  the  manifold  labors  of  the  propaganda  that  had 
been  placed  on  his  shoulders ;  it  pressed  the  pen  into 
his  hand  so  little  used  to  writing  when  the  columns 
of  the  paper  were  to  be  filled,  and  withheld  from  his 
thirsting  mouth  the  glass  in  order  to  place  the  money 
for  it  upon  the  great  altar  which  was  laden  with  the 
sacrifices  of  labor.  .  .  . 

It  was  this  devotion  to  the  cause  which  had  made 
of  him  a  character  remarkable  of  its  kind;  it  had 
increased  his  capacities  tenfold,  cast  his  energies  in 
the  mould  of  constancy  and  firmness,  and  given  aim 
and  direction  to  his  life.  It  dominated  him,  and  he 
was  its  slave,  although  a  slave  who  never  feels  his 
fetters  because  he  believes  he  is  free.  He  had  put 
the  bridle  of  that  devotion  on  his  body  and  brought 
himself  to  obedience  as  a  horse  obeys  its  rider;  it 


230  The  Anarchists, 

must  know  neither  fatigue  nor  hunger  if  he  did  not 
wish  it. 

Not  because  he  himself  wished  to  remain  free,  but 
because  he  wished  not  to  be  disturbed  in  the  service 
of  his  cause,  had  he  remained  unmarried,  or,  rather, 
never  united  himself  for  any  extended  period  with  a 
woman.  He  was  an  excellent  man  in  almost  every 
respect.  He  had  none  of  the  faults  of  narrowness ; 
the  grandeur  of  the  cause  stifled  them.  Of  an 
uncommon,  although  a  one-sided  and  little  disci- 
plined intelligence,  of  firm  health,  without  nerves 
and  with  muscles  of  steel,  with  an  iron  will  and  a 
dash  of  simple  greatness, — thus  he  stood:  at  the 
head  of  the  people,  as  it  were,  as  their  best  and  most 
worthy  representative,  erect  with  the  pride  of  the 
proletarian  who,  in  the  consciousness  of  his  power,  in 
the  consciousness  of  being  "all  in  all,"  claims  the 
world  from  a  class  already  declining,  claims  it  with 
the  vehemence  of  a  child,  the  wrath  of  a  revolution- 
ist, the  confidence  of  a  general  who  knows  his  troops 
and  feels  sure  that  they  are  invincible,  and  who 
claims  it  without  suspecting  what  he  demands. 

History  requires  such  men  in  order  to  —  use  them. 
It  is  they  with  whom  it  fights  its  external  battles,  by 
placing  them  at  the  head  of  the  masses  whose  strength 
is  decisive. 

Liberty  sees  in  them  only  obstacles.  For  its  battles 
are  fought  only  by  the  individuals  who  represent 
nothing  but  themselves. 

Trupp  was  an  excellent  man.  But  he  was  often 
blind  with  both  eyes.  He  was  a  fanatic.  He  was, 
moreover,  the  fanatic  of  a  fantasy.  For  a  fantasy  is 
Communism  which  must  invoke  force  in  order  to 
become  dismal  reality.  .  .  . 

Trupp  walked  on,  and  his  wakeful  thoughts  cut 
still  deeper,  and  he  felt  them  more  painfully  than  the 
narcotic  stupor  in  which  he  had  passed  the  day.  He 
was  uearing  the  Club. 


The  Propaganda  of  Communism.  231 

The  revolutionaries  of  Socialism  are  scattered  over 
the  entire  world.  They  have  already  set  foot  on 
the  most  distant  continents,  and  are  knocking  with 
their  lists  against  the  farthermost  doors. 

They  think  they  are  the  early  morning  walkers  of 
the  new  day  which  is  dawning  for  mankind. 

Everywhere  they  join  hands :  here  they  call  them- 
selves a  party,  and  aim  to  get  into  political  power  by 
means  of  universal  suffrage  and  strictly  disciplined 
organization  under  the  direction  of  elected  leaders, 
in  order  at  some  future  time  to  solve  the  social  ques- 
tion from  above  by  force ;  and  there  they  call  them- 
selves a  group,  and  preach  the  forcible  overthrow  of 
all  external  relations  as  the  only  deliverance  out  of 
that  intolerable  misery  which  always  appears  to  have 
reached  its  highest  point,  and  yet  always  grows 
greater,  like  the  cloud  which  comes  nearer  and 
nearer,  which  yesterday  we  hardly  noticed,  which 
to-day  already  lowers  above  us  with  its  threatening 
shadows,  and  which  will  discharge  itself  to-morrow 
—  surely  to-morrow:  qnly  we  do  not  yet  know  the 
hour,  the  spot,  and  the  measure  of  its  force. 

Everywhere  they  scatter  their  publications,  their 
pamphlets.  Everywhere  they  start  their  newspapers. 
.  .  .  Most  of  these  enterprises  indeed  pass  away 
again  as  quickly  as  they  arose ;  they  die  of  exhaus- 
tion, they  are  suppressed,  but  still  their  number  is 
so  large  that  it  can  no  longer  be  ascertained.  They 
are  seed  grains,  fallen  on  sterile  soil  and  among 
weeds :  only  a  few  strike  root,  grow,  bear  fruit  for  a 
few  summers.  .  .  .  But  the  hand  that  sowed  them 
does  not  grow  empty;  courage,  perseverance,  and 
hope  fill  it  again  and  again.  .  .  . 

The  revolutionaries  of  Socialism  are  scattered  over 
all  the  great  cities  of  the  world. 

But  in  none  is  their  swarm  so  mixed  as  in  London. 
Nowhere  does  it  draw  so  closely  together;  nowhere 
does  it  go  so  far  apart.  Nowhere  are  its  own  dis- 
sensions more  bitter,  and  nowhere  does  it  fight  the 


232  The  Anarchists. 

common  enemy  with  greater  bitterness.  Nowhere 
does  it  speak  in  so  many  languages,  and  nowhere 
does  it  give  expression  to  a  greater  variety  of  opin- 
ions in  a  greater  variety  of  accents. 

It  embodies  all  types;  and  it  shows  them  all  in 
their  most  perfect  and  interesting  as  well  as  in  their 
most  demoralized  and  commonplace  forms. 

For  the  novice  it  is  a  chaos.  But  it  soon  becomes 
a  splendid  field  of  learning,  where  he  quickly  feels 
himself  at  home. 

The  life  of  the  refugees  in  London  has  a  great 
history. 

When  English  Socialism,  whose  slow  growth  has  not 
yet  reached  maturity,  still  lay  in  its  swaddling  clothes, 
the  refugees  of  the  fourth  decade  came  to  London,  and 
at  the  instigation  of  men  like  Marx  and  others  founded 
the  first  society  of  refugees  of  German  workingmen 
in  London,  the  "Communistic  Workingmen's  So- 
ciety," which  became  the  parent  society  of  such 
variously  constituted  children  that  they  no  longer 
recognize  each  other  as  brothers  and  sisters. 

The  Russians  came,  with  Herzen  at  their  head, 
who  rung  his  "  Kolokol "  there ;  and  Bakounine  came 
from  his  Siberian  exile.  Freiligrath  came  with 
magnificent  songs  on  his  trembling  lips ;  and  Kinkel 
came  for  a  short  time  from  the  prison  of  Spandau; 
and  Huge  with  the  scattered  remains  of  his  "  Jahr- 
biicher."  .  .  .  Mazzini  lived  there,  the  great  patriot, 
the  republican  conspirator.  There  finally  the  French- 
men: Louis  Blanc,  Ledru-Rollin,  and  the  comrades 
of  their  fate.  .  .  . 

All  found  rest  and  peace  there,  the  peaceless  rest 
of  exile  and  the  scanty  bread  of  the  banished.  .  .  . 

Then  the  great  names  cease.     There  is  a  pause. 

When  with  the  advent  of  the  eighth  decade  the 
creed  of  free  Communism,  which  assumes  the  name 
of  Anarchism,  comes  to  London  in  the  person  of  one 
of  its  first  and  most  active  champions  who  founds 
"  Freiheit "  there  as  its  first  organ,  the  "  Communistic 


The  Propaganda  of  Communism.  233 

Workingmen's  Educational  Society"  has  already 
separated  into  three  sections,  which  soon  meet  only 
in  bitter  hostility:  here  the  Social  Democrats,  the 
"blue,"  there  the  Anarchists,  the  "red."  A  few 
years  later  the  publication  of  the  new  paper  is  trans- 
ferred to  New  York;  but  London,  where,  since  the 
passage  of  the  law  against  Socialists  in  Germany  in 
1878,  the  movement  has  drifted  into  an  entirely  new 
channel,  has  again  become  the  headquarters  of  all 
German  refugees,  although  in  a  different  way  from 
that  of  thirty  years  ago.  .  .  . 

Their  physiognomies,  their  aspirations,  their  pur- 
poses, their  aims,  have  totally  changed.  Everything 
is  in  a  state  of  fermentation.  All  stand  against  each 
other;  all  who  come  —  tired  by  hardships  endured, 
embittered  by  terrible  persecutions,  driven  into  all 
forms  of  activity  — •  are  drawn  into  it :  for  in  that  bay 
of  exile  the  waves  ran  more  wildly  than  on  the  high 
seas. 

It  seems  at  times  as  if  the  refugees  had  forgotten 
their  distant  enemy,  so  bitterly  they  fight  among 
themselves.  Individual  groups  secede  from  the  sec- 
tions of  the  parent  society,  and  refuse  to  retain  even 
the  old  name.  A  few  individuals,  filled  with  rest- 
lessness and  ambition,  try  to  avail  themselves  of  the 
dissension  for  the  purpose  of  gathering  up  the  severed 
threads  and  keeping  them  —  in  their  own  hands. 
The  controversies  for  and  against  them  are  carried  on 
for  weeks  and  for  months  to  the  degree  of  exhaus- 
tion, when  they  cease  and  leave  no  other  traces  than 
estrangement,  a  pile  of  papers  full  of  insinuations 
and  suspicions,  and  a  useless  pamphlet. 

In  1887,  the  year  of  the  Chicago  murder,  the  four 
German  workingmen's  clubs  of  London  were  bound 
together  only  by  the  thin  and  already  damaged  bond 
of  affiliation.  Only  a  few  of  the  members  still 
associated  with  one  another.  As  societies  they  came 
together  only  when  the  object  was  to  join  the  English 
Socialists  in  some  grand  demonstration,  to  make  a 


234  The  Anarchists. 

brilliant  affair  of  some  meeting,  or  to  celebrate  the 
days  of  March. 


Trupp  found  his  Club  that  evening  well  attended. 
Usually  its  rooms  were  filled  only  on  the  Sunday 
afternoons  and  evenings  when  not  alone  the  members, 
but  also  their  wives  and  children  and  the  invited 
guests,  came  to  attend  the  regular  musical  and  the- 
atrical entertainments.  Those  entertainments,  open 
to  everybody  at  an  admission  fee  of  sixpence,  had 
the  double  purpose  of  furnishing  new  sources  of 
revenue  for  the  propaganda,  the  papers  and  pam- 
phlets, and  the  countless  occasions  necessitating  pecu- 
niary assistance,  and  of  offering  a  diversion  from  the 
cares  of  the  past  and  the  thoughts  of  the  coming  week 
in  dance  and  light  conversation,  which  often  gave  no 
hint  of  the  excited  struggles  at  the  discussions  and 
closed  meetings. 

Trupp  hardly  could  force  his  way  through  the 
narrow  passage  from  the  door  to  the  steps  leading  to 
the  basement  hall  below.  The  bar-room  on  the  left 
of  the  steps  was  crowded.  Most  of  the  people  were 
standing  before  the  counter,  alone  or  in  groups, 
glasses  in  hand,  while  only  a  small  number  had 
secured  places  beside  the  few  tables.  But  there  was 
still  a  corner  for  Trupp  on  one  of  the  benches.  They 
crowded  more  closely  together,  and  he  quickly  took 
the  first  glass  held  out  to  him,  emptying  it  at  one 
draught. 

The  spirit  of  the  gathering  varied  with  the  people. 
While  a  number  of  groups  were  moved  by  the  noisy 
discussion  of  some  question,  others  were  almost 
dumb.  An  oppressive  silence  reigned  at  the  table 
where  Trupp  had  found  a  place.  A  young  man  was 
sitting  at  its  other  end.  He  was  reading  from  a 
newspaper,  but  his  voice  was  not  clear,  and  he  shed 
tears  when  he  came  to  the  details  of  the  execution. 
He  was  surrounded  on  all  sides.  A  look  of  threat- 


The  Propaganda  of  Communism.  235 

ening  determination  lay  on  all  faces.  But  only 
suppressed  words  escaped  the  lips  pressed  together, 
and  only  their  looks  gave  evidence  of  what  most  of 
them  were  thinking. 

Suddenly  Trupp  saw  Auban  in  a  group  of  comrades 
standing  at  the  counter  where  the  host  and  his  wife 
were  untiringly  seeking  to  gratify  the  wishes  of  the 
guests.  They  had  not  seen  each  other  for  eight  days, 
since  their  excursion  through  the  East  End. 

Why  had  Auban  come  that  evening?  It  had  been 
more  an  accident  than  deliberate  intention  which 
led  him  in  the  neighborhood  of  Tottenham  Court 
Road  and  gave  him  the  thought  of  visiting  the  Club 
for  half  an  hour.  The  day  had  passed  more  quickly 
in  work  than  he  had  dared  to  hope.  The  storms  of 
the  morning  were  followed  by  the  calm  of  victory. 
Whoever  saw  him  now  found  him  cool  and  composed 
as  ever. 

Immediately  upon  his  entrance  he  had  been  greeted 
by  acquaintances.  They  had  shown  him  the  new 
rooms  of  the  house ;  the  upper  rooms,  where  there  was 
a  billiard  table  and  where  the  small  conferences  in 
closed  circle  were  held,  and  the  large  meeting  hall  in 
the  basement,  which  was  very  roomy  and  made  an 
agreeable  impression  with  its  bright,  clean  walls. 

In  former  years  the  Club  had  had  at  its  disposal 
only  the  gloomy  and  dirty  back  room  of  a  public 
house,  of  which  the}r  grew  tired,  especially  in  conse- 
quence of  the  quarrels  that  filled  it  for  weeks  and  for 
months.  And  in  the  spirit  of  sacrifice  they  had  now 
rented  this  house,  where  they  felt  comfortable. 

In  the  bar-room,  which  was  too  small  for  the  crowds 
always  gathering  there  first,  Auban  had  entered  into 
a  conversation.  They  had  heard  about  the  last  dis- 
cussion held  at  his  place,  and  had  many  objections 
to  offer  to  his  theories. 

What  ?  He  wanted  to  leave  private  property  intact 
and  to  abolish  the  State  ?  But  the  very  function  of 


236  The  Anarchists. 

the  State  is  the  protection  of  private  property.  And 
one  man  asked  in  English :  — 

"  As  long  as  there  is  private  property  it  will  need 
protection.  Consequently,  the  State  can  fall  only 
when  the  former  falls.  What  have  you  to  reply  to 
that?" 

"It  is  possible  that  private  property  will  require 
protection.  I  shall  buy  that  protection,  and  I  shall 
combine  with  others  for  the  protection  of  our  prop- 
erty, whenever  it  will  be  necessary.  But  I  claim 
that  ninety-nine  per  cent,  of  all  so-called  'crimes  of 
property '  are  committed  by  those  who,  driven  to 
despair  by  the  prevailing  conditions,  either  cannot 
sell  their  labor  or  sell  it  only  far  below  the  limit  of 
its  price,  —  assuming  that  cost  forms  the  true  limit 
of  price.  I  assert,  therefore,  that  they  must  become 
a  rarity  from  the  hour  when  each  shall  be  able  to 
secure  the  full  product  of  his  Iab6r,  i.e.  from  the 
hour  when  State  meddling  shall  cease. 

"  I  assert,  further,  that  self-protection  will  be  more 
effective  than  the  protection  which  the  State  forces  on 
us  without  asking  us  if  we  want  it.  For  example :  — 

"  I  could  not  kill  a  man,  whether  in  war,  in  a  duel, 
or  in  any  other  'legal '  manner.  But  I  should  not 
hesitate  a  moment  to  send  a  bullet  through  the  head 
of  the  burglar  who  should  enter  my  house  with  the 
intention  of  robbing  and  murdering  me.  And  I 
believe  that  he  would  think  twice  before  entering  on 
the  burglary  if  he  were  certain  of  such  a  reception, 
instead  of  knowing,  as  at  present,  that  stupid  laws 
make  it  difficult  for  me  to  protect  my  life  and  my 
property,  and  that  at  the  worst  he  will  receive  but 
such  and  such  punishment. 

"  I  have  chosen  this  example  also  for  the  benefit  of 
those  who  still  are  unable  to  see  the  difference 
between  a  defensive  and  an  aggressive  action,  and 
consequently  between  a  voluntary  association  for 
mutual  solidarity  in  definite  cases  which  can  be  dis- 
solved at  any  time,  for  instance,  life  insurance,  etc., 


The  Propaganda  of  Communism.          '  237 

and  a  State  which  grants  the  individual  neither  the 
choice  of  entering  nor  of  leaving  it,  except  on  the 
condition  that  he  emigrates  from  the  land  of  his 
birth." 

Auban  ceased.  But  those  who  had  listened  to 
him  made  each  of  his  sentences  a  text  for  lively 
discussions. 

They  tried  to  draw  him  into  them.  But  Auban 
was  not  disposed  to-day  to  talk  much,  and  he  de- 
clined. He  descended  the  steps  leading  into  the 
meeting  hall.  It  was  now  filled,  and  there  were 
many  impatient  calls  for  the  exercises  to  begin. 

Auban  remained  standing  near  the  steps,  at  the 
entrance  to  the  hall,  whose  benches  stretching  along 
the  walls  were  now  filled  to  the  last  seat.  As  the 
centre  remained  free,  the  assembly  formed  an  oval 
circle  in  which  each  individual  was  recognizable  by 
all.  So  most  of  them  remained  sitting  in  their  places 
when  they  spoke. 

On  that  evening  few  women  were  present.  The 
men  were  mostly  young,  in  the  twenties  and  thirties. 

The  meeting  did  not  differ  in  any  respect  from 
similar  gatherings  of  workingmen,  except,  perhaps, 
in  the  proportionally  large  number  of  bold  and  ener- 
getic heads  which  bore  the  stamp  of  exceptional 
intelligence  and  great  force  of  will.  However,  as  is 
always  the  case,  so  here  it  was  only  the  few  who 
stood  out  so  prominently  as  to  be  at  once  recognizable 
as  the  hewers  of  new  paths,  the  axe-bearing  pioneers 
and  heralds  of  a  new  and  better  age. 

They  talked  about  Chicago.  Many  spoke.  As 
soon  as  one  had  finished  another  began,  and  many  a 
hand  still  rose  in  the  air  in  sign  that  the  list  of 
speakers  was  not  yet  closed. 

Most  of  them  spoke  briefly  but  violently.  Plans 
were  already  being  suggested  as  to  the  manner  in 
which  the  propaganda  of  the  death  of  the  martyrs 
was  to  be  inaugurated. 

All  agreed  that  something  extraordinary  must  be 
done.  .  . 


238  The  Anarchists. 

Then  the  debate  turned  on  the  question  of  found- 
ing a  school  for  the  children  of  the  members  who  did 
not  want  them  to  be  poisoned  by  the  belief  in  the 
Church  and  the  State  prevailing  in  the  public  schools. 

Those  loud  voices  suddenly  disturbed  Auban. 
They  did  not  harmonize  with  his  mood.  About 
Chicago  this  evening  —  in  a  meeting  of  such  size: 
he  felt  it  was  not  right ;  and  the  school  question  — 
he  could  not  be  of  any  help  in  it  any  way;  his  task 
was  a  different  one. 

He  withdrew,  therefore,  into  the  quieter  back- 
ground of  the  hall,  where  a  few  comrades  were  sitting 
beside  their  glasses  and  their  newspapers.  One  was 
reading,  while  another  was  carrying  on  a  conversa- 
tion in  a  low  tone  with  a  third,  and  a  fourth  had 
fallen  asleep,  overcome  by  the  exertion  of  the  day's 
labor.  A  young,  blonde  man  with  a  friendly  expresr 
sion  was  holding  a  child  on  his  knees.  The  mother 
had  died  not  long  after  his  birth,  and  the  father,  who 
could  not  leave  him  at  home  alone,  was  obliged  to 
take  him  with  him  to  the  Club,  where  he  grew  up : 
nursed  and  petted  by  rough  hands,  but  watched  over 
by  good  and  faithful  eyes,  fostered  by  that  tender 
spirit  of  love  that  dwells  only  in  hearts  which  can- 
not alone  love,  but  also  hate.  .  .  .  The  young  man 
had  bestowed  special  care  on  the  child,  and  he  hung 
often  for  hours  on  his  neck  with  his  thin,  small  arms, 
while  the  father  took  part  in  a  discussion ;  and  noth- 
ing was  more  beautiful  than  the  care  and  goodness 
with  which  he  and  the  others  tried  to  replace  the 
mother  for  him. 

Auban  smiled  when  he  saw  that  picture  again. 
He  came  nearer  and  played  with  the  child,  who  did 
not  show  a  trace  of  fatigue.  But  then  he  was  again 
overcome  by  his  own  heavy  and  serious  thoughts. 
For  he  had  seen  a  face  at  the  same  table  which  he 
knew  but  too  well.  It  was  a  comrade  who  had 
become  insane  under  the  pressure  ojf  constant  perse- 
cutions. At  first  over-sensitive,  then  seized  by 


The  Propaganda  of  Communism.  239 

melancholy,  his  insanity  had  broken  out  here  in 
London,  where  he  had  sought  his  last  refuge,  here, 
where  he  was  in  perfect  security.  He  passed  most  of 
his  time  at  the  Club,  where  he  usually  sat  in  a 
corner,  not  disturbing  anybody,  and  where  he  was 
treated  with  gentle  sympathy  by  all  who  saw  him. 
No  one  could  help  him  any  more ;  but  they  wished  to 
save  him,  at  least,  from  the  insane  asylum. 

Intentionally  Auban  did  not  speak  to  him.  It 
would  only  have  troubled  him.  For  the  unfortunate 
man  was  most  contented  if  left  sitting  alone  in  his 
corner,  where,  with  murmuring  lips,  he  could  for 
hours  stare  before  him,  and  with  his  nimble  ringers 
draw  incomprehensible  figures  on  the  table.  .  .  .  He 
always  recalled  to  Auban  another  comrade  who  had 
been  overtaken  by  insanity  in  another  way.  It  had 
been  one  of  his  young  Parisian  friends.  Fiery, 
enthusiastic,  devoted,  he  lived  only  for  the  cause. 
He  could  have  given  his  life  for  it.  He  was  thirst- 
ing to  demonstrate  his  love,  and  he  found  no  other 
way  than  that  of  a  "deed."  He  had  been  influenced 
by  passionate  speeches  and  inspiring  promises.  But 
his  nature  which  shrank  from  violence  and  blood- 
shed, revolted.  And  in  the  long  struggle  between 
what  seemed  to  him  as  his  holiest  duty  and  that 
nature  which  made  its  fulfilment  an  impossibility, 
his  mind  gave  way.  .  .  . 

While  Auban  was  under  the  spell  of  that  memory, 
he  heard  Trupp's  loud,  clear  voice,  as  it  penetrated 
the  hall  from  end  to  end. 

"  We  must  declare  ourselves  in  solidarity,  not  only 
with  the  opinions  of  the  murdered  men  of  Chicago, 
but  also  with  the  deed  of  the  bomb-thrower  of  the 
fourth  of  May,  that  glorious  deed  of  a  hero!  "  —  and 
noticed  the  enthusiasm  which  those  words  elicited  on 
all  sides. 

His  flesh  began  to  creep.  He  felt  like  rising  and 
holding  up  his  hands  entreatingly  against  the  fools 
who  were  ready  to  jump  into  the  abyss  that  had 


240  The  Anarchists. 

opened  before  them.  But  his  reason  also  showed  him 
at  once  the  perfect  uselessness  of  his  intention: 
instead  of  tempering  the  passions,  his  words  would 
have  fanned  them  to  a  higher  flame  on  that  evening. 

He  supported  his  head  with  his  hands. 

If  possible,  he  wished  to  have  a  decisive  word 
with  Trupp  that  very  evening. 

He  felt  that  there  was  nothing  further  for  him  to 
do  here.  He  believed  only  in  self-help.  They 
would  have  to  proceed  along  their  lines  and  make 
their  experiences,  from  which  neither  he  nor  any  one 
else  could  save  them. 

And  he  again  asked  himself  the  question  which 
had  often  come  to  him  of  late  years :  "  Have  you  any 
right  whatever  to  help?  to  influence?  to  counsel? 
Was  there  any  other  way  than  that  of  experience? 
And  did  not  all  experience  require  time  to  be  made  ? 
Was  it  right  to  forestall  it?" 

Auban  had,  therefore,  but  rarely  taken  part  in  any 
discussions  since  he  came  to  London.  But  he  always 
remembered  with  pleasure  an  evening  when  he  had 
discussed  the  question  of  the  gratuity  of  mutual 
credit  with  four  or  five  others  in  the  narrow  bar-room 
above  him.  Each  had  taken  part,  not  with  long 
explanations,  but  with  brief,  concise  questions ;  each 
had  had  an  opportunity  to  formulate  and  express  his 
ideas  as  he  wished,  so  that,  when  they  separated,  all 
demanded  the  continuation  of  such  meetings,  so 
animated  were  they  and  enthusiastic  over  the  profit- 
able manner  of  exchanging  opinions.  When  they 
met  again,  this  time  not  in  the  exceptionally  small 
circle,  but  in  the  usual  large  number,  everything 
had  been  led  back  into  the  old  rut :  one  speaker  rose, 
spoke  for  two  hours,  —  in  accordance  with  the  prin- 
ciple of  personal  liberty  each  had  the  right  to  speak 
as  long  as  he  wished,  and  none  the  right  to  interrupt 
him,  —  digressed,  took  up  entirely  foreign  subjects, 
tired  some  and  bored  others,  so  that  Auban  had 
given  up  the  matter  and  gone  away  discouraged.  It 
was  the  last  attempt  of  the  kind  he  had  made. 


The  Propaganda  of  Communism.  241 

He  had  not  only  sympathy,  but  also  admiration  for 
those  men  who  occupied  themselves  after  their  day's 
hard  labor  with  the  most  serious  problems  in  the 
most  devoted  manner,  while  they  saw  others  divert- 
ing themselves  in  a  stupid  game  at  cards  or  in 
shallow  talk.  He  respected  them  from  the  bottom 
of  his  heart.  But  only  the  more  deeply  did  he 
deplore  the  intangible  vagueness  of  their  aspirations, 
which  would  not  achieve  a  single  aim,  would  grow 
more  and  more  desperate,  and  after  a  thousand  sacri- 
fices end  like  all  similar  ones  before  them,  —  in  blood 
and  defeat. 

For  in  reality  they  were  not  struggling  for  the 
improvement  of  their  own  lot.  They  struggled  for 
ideals  which  were  unattainable  because  utterly  vis- 
ionary. Moreover,  they  had  only  contempt  and 
scorn  for  all  "  practical "  aspirations  of  their  class  to 
help  itself,  which,  in  comparison  with  their  "great 
aims"  of  the  emancipation  of  mankind,  etc.,  seemed 
paltry  and  prosaic. 

Their  mental  confusion  seemed  almost  incurable 
to  Auban  since  he  had  recognized  it.  He  had  often 
made  experiments  to  see  how  far  it  extended,  and 
met  with  results  that  first  amazed  and  finally  dis- 
couraged him. 

Thus  he  had  once  put  the  first  and  simplest  of  all 
questions  to  each  of  a  number  of  his  acquaintances :  — 

"  To  whom  does  the  product  of  your  labor  belong  ?  " 
he  asked  in  turn,  first  a  number  of  inveterate  Social 
Democrats  of  strictest  faith;  several  Communists, 
both  those  who  championed  compulsory  Communism 
and  those  who  saw  in  the  autonomy  of  the  individual 
the  final  aim,  and  regarded  themselves  as  Anarchists ; 
finally,  a  number  of  English  Socialists.  If  they  had 
all  been  logical  thinkers,  they  would  have  been 
obliged  to  reply  on  the  basis  of  their  philosophy  of 
Socialism:  "My  labor  belongs  to  the  others:  the 
State,  society,  mankind.  ...  I  have  no  right  to 
it."  .  .  .  But  a  Social  Democrat  replied  without 


242  The  Anarchists. 

hesitation :  his  labor  belonged  to  him ;  and  an  Auton- 
omist: his  labor  belonged  to  society;  and  Auban 
was  surprised  to  learn  that  those  who  were  most 
bitterly  fighting  among  themselves  agreed  on  this 
one  question,  of  which  all  others  are  corollaries ;  and 
that  those  who  occupied  one  and  the  same  ground 
gave  directly  opposite  answers.  .  .  . 

Indeed,  nothing  had  yet  been  cleared  up.  Most 
of  them  were  bound  together  not  by  clear  thoughts, 
but  by  dull  feelings  which  had  not  yet  shaken  off 
the  torpor  of  sleep.  Revolutions  are  fought  with 
those  feelings,  but  no  truths  are  fathomed  by  them. 
The  cool,  refreshing  bath  of  experience  must  first 
have  washed  the  sleep  from  the  eyes  of  the  awaking 
masses,  before  they  would  be  able  to  proceed  to  the 
labor  of  the  new  day.  .  .  . 

It  was  necessary  to  be  patient  and  not  to  lose 
courage !  .  .  .  Auban  thought  again  of  Trupp,  and 
wanted  to  see  him.  He  could  not  find  him  in  the 
hall,  and  so  went  up  stairs  again. 


When  he  entered  the  bar-room  again,  he  found 
Trupp  engaged  in  conversation  with  a  man  whose 
bearing  and  dress  at  once  showed  that  he  was  no 
workingman,  but  wished  to  appear  one.  He  stopped, 
therefore,  and  at  the  same  time  caught  a  look  of  his 
friend,  which  he  instantly  understood.  The  stranger, 
who  had  been  drinking  from  the  glass  before  him, 
could  not  have  noticed  anything  of  the  rapid,  silent 
exchange  of  ideas. 

Most  of  the  people  had  gone  down  into  the  hall. 
Only  at  the  table  a  few  comrades  were  still  sitting, 
reading  and  playing  cards.  Auban  joined  them  and 
sat  down  with  his  back  towards  Trupp.  Then  he 
took  up  one  of  the  papers  lying  about,  and  appeared 
to  be  reading  it  attentively. 

Of  the  conversation  carried  on  behind  him  he  could 
understand  only  a  few  words,  especially  as  it  was  in 


The  Propaganda  of  Communism.  243 

German.  Both  speakers  intentionally  lowered  their 
voices.  But  he  had  not  been  sitting  there  five  min- 
utes, when  he  felt  Trupp's  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Will  you  go  with  us  ?  Let  us  have  another  glass 
of  beer."  He  turned  instantly,  and  noticed  in  rising 
how  little  the  stranger  could  suppress  his  embarrass- 
ment at  this  invitation. 

All  three  left  the  Club  together.  The  stranger 
concealed  his  embarrassment  in  passing  through  the 
door  by  politely  allowing  Auban  to  take  the  lead. 

When  they  were  on  the  street,  Trupp  said  in  a 
loud  voice  to  Auban:  "A  banished  comrade  from 
Berlin!  A  fine  place,  isn't  it?" 

Auban  bit  his  lips.  On  such  occasions  his  friend 
was  an  expert. 

"What  are  you?"  he  asked  the  Berlinian,  in 
German. 

"I  am  a  shoemaker,  but  I  cannot  find  any  work 
here." 

"  Oh,  you  are  a  shoemaker !  But  how  do  you  wash 
your  hands  to  get  them  so  white  ?  "  Auban  continued. 

Now  the  stranger  grew  seriously  alarmed.  His 
timid  look  passed  alternately  from  one  to  the  other. 
He  was  walking  between  the  two.  He  wanted  to 
stop,  but  Trupp  and  Auban  walked  on  unconcerned, 
so  that  he  could  only  ask:  "You  do  not  believe 
me?" 

Trupp  burst  into  a  loud  laugh,  which  sounded  as 
natural  as  that  of  a  child, 

"Nonsense,  the  comrade  is  joking.  Who  would 
not  believe  you  ?  " 

And  he  suddenly  grew  very  talkative,  so  that  the 
others  could  not  get  in  a  word.  But  all  that  he  said 
turned  on  the  unmasking  of  decoys,  police  agents, 
and  similar  shady  characters.  He  made  fun  of  the 
ignorance  both  of  the  authorities  and  their  tools. 
He  spoke  also  of  the  voluntary  spies  who  had  sneaked 
into  the  clubs  and  meetings,  and  thrust  their  noses 
into  everything  until  they  were  thrown  out,  when 


244  The  Anarchists. 

they  finally  filled  the  newspapers  with  lying  reports 
of  things  they  had  hardly  seen  and  did  not  under- 
stand. 

Trupp's  intention  was  no  longer  to  be  mistaken, 
especially  since  he  did  not  concern  himself  about 
Auban,  who,  apparently  absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts, 
sauntered  along,  but  step  for  step  kept  closely  by  the 
side  of  the  stranger,  who  could  not  escape  from  him, 
and  whom  each  of  his  words  put  in  perceptibly 
greater  alarm  and  fear. 

They  had  reached  a  narrow  and  dark  street,  which 
was  illumined  only  by  a  single  lantern  and  entirely 
deserted.  Here  several  houses  stood  considerably 
back,  leaving  a  large  open  space  before  the  street 
again  grew  narrow. 

Trupp  had  reached  his  destination,  and  suddenly 
interrupted  himself. 

The  decoy  saw  that  all  was  lost. 

"  Where  are  we  going?  "  he  uttered,  with  an  effort, 
and  stopped.  "I  do  not  want  to  go  farther- — " 

Already  Trupp's  strong  hands  had  seized  him  and 
pushed  him  powerfully  against  the  wall. 

"  You  scoundrel !  "  he  broke  forth.  "  Now  I  have 
you!" 

And  twice  his  free  hand  struck  the  face  of  the 
wretch ;  once  from  the  right  and  once  from  the  left, 
and  both  times  Auban  heard  the  clashing  blow  of 
that  iron  hand. 

The  stranger  was  stunned.  He  raised  his  arms 
only  in  defence,  to  protect  his  face. 

But  Trupp  commanded:  "Arms  down!"  and  in- 
voluntarily, like  a  child  that  is  punished  by  his 
teacher,  he  dropped  his  arms. 

Again  —  and  again  —  Trupp's  hand  struck  out, 
and  with  every  blow  his  wrath  also  found  relief  in 
words :  "  You  knave  —  you  contemptible  knave  —  you 
wanted  to  betray  us,  you  spy?  Just  wait,  you  will 
not  come  again !  " 

And  again  his  hand  descended. 


The  Propaganda  of  Communism.  245 

"Help  me;  he  is  strangling  me!  "  came  gaspingly 
from  the  lips  of  the  man,  who  was  seized  by  the 
terror  of  death. 

But  Auban,  unsympathetic,  half  turned  away,  his 
arms  crossed  on  his  breast,  did  not  stir. 

And  Trupp  shook  his  victim  like  a  doll  of  straw. 
"Yes,  one  ought  to  strangle  dogs  like  you,"  he  again 
broke  forth.  "  It  would  be  the  best  thing  one  could 
do !  All  of  you,  decoys  that  you  are,  scoundrels !  " 
—  and  while  he  lifted  the  fellow  from  his  cowering 
position,  he  dragged  him  with  the  hand  which  he 
seemed  to  have  inextricably  buried  in  his  breast, 
closer  into  the  unsteady,  flickering  light  of  the 
lantern  and  showed  Auban  the  pale,  cowardly  face, 
distorted  by  the  fear  of  death,  and  disfigured  under 
the  blows  of  that  murderous  iron  fist:  "See,  Auban; 
so  they  look,  those  wretches,  who  pursue  the  lowest 
of  all  callings !  "  He  opened  his  fist,  which  lay  like 
a  vice  on  the  breast  of  his  victim,  who  —  exhausted 
and  dizzy  —  staggered,  fell  down,  picked  himself  up 
again,  muttered  some  incomprehensible  words,  and 
disappeared  in  the  darkness. 

The  two  friends  gave  the  fellow  no  further  atten- 
tion. While  they  were  rapidly  walking  towards 
Oxford  Street,  Trupp  related  the  details  of  this  new 
case.  The  friends  now  spoke  French. 

One  day  the  fellow  had  come  to  one  of  the  mem- 
bers with  a  letter  of  recommendation  from  a  comrade 
in  Berlin.  The  member  took  the  bearer  into  the 
Club,  and  inquiry  in  Berlin  confirmed  the  recom- 
mendation. But  then  it  became  known  that  the  real 
receiver  of  it  was  not  identical  with  the  bearer;  that 
the  latter  had  been  given  it  by  the  former,  and  had 
introduced  himself  under  an  assumed  name.  There- 
upon, one  of  the  comrades,  without  arousing  his 
suspicions,  went  to  room  with  him,  and  managed  to 
get  hold  of  his  entire  correspondence,  which  showed 
him  to  be  a  decoy  in  the  direct  pay  of  the  German 
police,  who  for  a  monthly  salary  had  undertaken  to 


246  The  Anarchists. 

give  his  employers  all  desired  information  regarding 
the  proceedings  in  the  London  Anarchistic  clubs. 
They  wanted  to  avoid  a  scandal  in  the  Club,  in  order 
not  to  give  the  English  police  the  coveted  opportu- 
nity for  entering  it.  He  had  undertaken  the  chas- 
tisement of  which  Auban  had  just  been  a  witness. 

Exposures  of  this  kind  were  neither  new  nor 
especially  rare.  Generally,  the  fellows  devoting 
themselves  to  that  most  sordid  and  contemptible  of 
all  callings  escaped  with  a  sound  thrashing;  often 
they  scented  what  was  coming,  and  anticipated  a 
discovery  by  timely  flight.  In  consequence  of  cease- 
less denunciation,  vilification,  and  persecution  the 
suspicion  among  the  revolutionists  had  grown  very 
great.  Important  plans  were  no  longer  discussed  in 
larger  circles,  and  mostly  remained  the  secret  of  a  few 
intimates,  or  were  locked  up  in  the  breast  of  a  single 
individual.  But  greater  still  than  against  unknown 
workingmen  was  the  suspicion  against  intellectual 
workers,  in  consequence  of  the  sad  experiences  that 
had  been  made  with  newspaper  writers  and  litte- 
rateurs. Nothing  was  more  justifiable  than  caution 
in  regard  to  these  people;  out  of  every  ten  there 
were  surely  nine  who,  under  the  pretence  of  wishing 
to  "study"  the  teachings  of  Anarchism,  only  tried  to 
penetrate  the  secrets  of  the  propaganda  in  order  to 
spread  before  their  ignorant  and  injudicious  readers 
the  mast  harrowing  tales  concerning  those  "  bands  of 
murderers  and  criminals."  That  many  an  intellect- 
ual proletaire,  who  was  suffering  just  as  much,  if  not 
more,  than  the  hand-worker  from  the  pressure  of  the 
prevailing  conditions,  and  who  was  consequently  filled 
by  the  same  great  hatred  against  them,  was  frightened 
away  by  that  suspicion,  — when  he  came  to  place  his 
talents  in  the  service  of  the  "most  progressive  of  all 
parties,"  —  was  a  fact  which,  as  Trupp  said,  was 
"not  to  be  changed."  The  greater  were  the  hopes 
which  Auban  began  to  place  in  them:  bound  by  no 
considerations,  and  in  the  possession  of  an  education 


The  Propaganda  of  Communism.  247 

weighing  heavily  upon  them,  they  would  surely  be 
the  first  and  for  the  present  perhaps  also  the  only 
ones  who  are  not  alone  willing,  but  also  capable  of 
drawing  the  conclusions  of  Individualism. 

Trupp  had  reached  a  point  in  the  conversation 
which  always  excited  him  very  much. 

"The  Social  Democrats  assert,"  he  said,  with  his 
bitter  laugh,  "all  Anarchists  are  decoys;  or,  if  it 
happens  to  suit  them  better,  that  there  are  no  Anar- 
chists at  all.  Ah,"  he  continued,  indignant,  "there 
is  nothing  too  mean  that  was  not  done  against  us  by 
that  party,  above  all,  by  its  worthy  leaders,  who  lead 
the  workingmen  by  the  nose  in  a  perfectly  outrageous 
manner.  First  they  mocked  and  ridiculed  us;  then 
they  vilified  and  denounced  us;  they  haimed  us 
wherever  they  could.  From  the  beginning  till  now 
they  saw  in  us  their  bitterest  enemies,  all  because 
we  attempted  to  open  the  eyes  of  the  workingman  to 
the  uselessness  of  his  sacrifices,  of  the  suffrage  hum- 
bug, of  political  wire-pulling.  You  have  no  idea, 
Auban,  how  corrupt  the  party  is  in  Geimany:  the 
loyal  Prussian  subjects  are  not  less  self-reliant  and 
more  servile  in  relation  to  their  lord  and  master  than 
the  German  workingmen,  who  belong  to  the  party,  in 
relation  to  their  'leaders  '!  .  .  .  How  will  it  end?" 

"Well,"  Auban  observed,  calmly,  "there  is  an 
immense  difference  between  the  workingmen  as  a 
class  and  the  Social  Democrats  as  a  party.  It  is 
hardly  conceivable  that  the  former  will  ever  be  com- 
pletely absorbed  by  the  latter.  Therefore,  we  need 
not  stand  in  too  great  fear  of  the  future.  I  even 
believe  that  the  most  important  steps  in  the  emanci- 
pation of  labor  will  not  be  initiated  by  the  Socialistic 
parties,  but  by  the  workingmen  themselves,  who  will 
here  and  there  gradually  come  to  understand  their 
true  interests.  They  will  simply  push  the  party 
aside. 

"  But  still  less  will  they  have  anything  to  do  with 


248  The  Anarchists. 

you.  You  must  make  that  clear  to  yourselves.  For 
in  the  first  place,  they  can  understand  you  at  best 
with  the  heart,  but  not  with  the  intellect,  and  for  the 
real  improvement  of  their  condition  they  need  noth- 
ing more  than  their  intellect,  which  alone  can  show 
them  the  right  road:  I  mean  Egoism.  And  in  the 
second  place,  by  your  perfectly  absurd  blending  of 
all  sorts  of  views,  but  still  more  by  the  policy  you 
pursue,  you  have  challenged  the  prejudices  of  igno- 
rance, and  apparently  justified  them,  to  such  a  degree 
that  it  requires  an  exceptionally  independent  will 
and  a  very  rare  love  of  knowledge  to  study  your  ways. 
Or  a  warm  heart  —  which  you  all  have!  " 

"As  if  you  did  not  have  it?"  Trupp  laughed, 
bitterly. 

"  Yes ;  warm  enough,  I  hope,  to  love  the  cause  of 
liberty  forever.  But  no  longer  warm  enough  to 
harm  it  by  folly." 

"  What  do  you  call  folly  ?     Our  policy  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  You  say  that?  "  said  Trupp,  almost  threateningly. 

"Yes;  I." 

"Well,  then  it  is  about  time  that  we  came  to  a 
thorough  understanding  of  the  matter." 

"  Certainly.  But  first  let  us  be  alone.  Not  here 
on  the  street." 

They  walked  on  rapidly.  Trupp  was  silent. 
When  the  light  of  a  lantern  fell  on  them,  Auban 
saw  how  his  whole  frame  trembled  as  if  shaken  by 
chill,  while  he  was  sucking  the  blood  flowing  from 
a  wound  in  his  hand,  which  must  have  grazed  the 
wall  while  he  was  punishing  the  decoy. 

"You  are  shivering?"  he  asked,  thinking  the 
excitement  was  the  cause  of  it. 

But  Trupp  exclaimed  sullenly  that  it  was  nothing: 
he  had  only  been  running  about  the  whole  day,  and 
forgotten  to  eat  in  consequence.  Auban  shook  his 
head. 

"  You  are  incorrigible,  Otto !  To  eat  nothing  the 
whole  day,  what  folly!  " 


The  Propaganda  of  Communism.  249 

He  took  him  by  the  arm  and  drew  him  away. 
They  entered  a  small,  modest  restaurant  on  Oxford 
Street.  There  they  knew  a  little-frequented  back 
room.  As  they  sat  on  the  brown  leather  sofa  in  the 
quiet  corner,  and  Trupp  ate  hastily  and  silently, 
while  Auban  watched  him  chewing  his  meat  with  his 
strong  teeth,  he  reminded  him  that  in  that  very  room 
they  had  sat  opposite  each  other  after  years  of  separa- 
tion, and  he  said,  smiling :  — 

"  Is  not  everything  as  it  was  then  ?  "  .   .   . 

But  Trupp  cast  a  bitter  look  of  reproach  on  him, 
and  pushed  aside  his  plate  and  glass.  His  temporary 
weakness  had  disappeared,  and  he  was  again  entirely 
the  iron  man,  whose  physical  strength  was  inexhaust- 
ible. 

"Now  let  us  talk.     Or  are  you  tired?" 

"I  am  not  tired,"  said  Auban. 

Trupp  reflected  a  moment.  He  feared  the  coming 
conversation,  for  he  suspected  that  it  would  be  deci- 
sive. He  wished  with  all  his  heart  by  means  of  it  to 
win  back  his  friend  to  the  cause  of  the  revolution,  to 
the  conflict  of  the  hour,  in  which  he  and  his  com- 
rades were  engaged,  for  he  knew  how  invaluable  his 
services  were.  He  did  not  wish  intentionally  to 
bring  about  a  rupture  by  a  rude  attack,  but  neither 
could  he  suppress  the  reproaches  that  had  been 
gathering  within  him. 

"Since  you  have  been  in  London,"  he  began,  "and 
out  of  prison,  you  are  another  man.  I  hardly  know 
you  any  more.  You  have  no  longer  taken  part  in 
anything :  in  any  meeting,  or  scheme,  or  enterprise. 
You  have  no  longer  written  anything:  not  a  line. 
You  have  lost  almost  all  touch  with  us.  What 
excuse  have  you  ?  " 

"What  excuse  have  I?"  asked  Auban,  a  little 
sharply.  "What  for?  And  to  whom  do  I  owe  it?" 

"  To  the  cause !  "  replied  Trupp,  vehemently. 

"My  cause  is  my  liberty." 

"Once  liberty  was  your  cause." 


250  The  Anarchists. 

"  That  was  my  mistake.  Once  I  believed  that  I 
must  begin  with  the  others;  I  have  now  learned 
that  it  is  necessary  to  begin  with  one's  self  and  always 
to  start  from  one's  self." 

Trupp  was  silent.     Then  Auban  began :  — 

"  Two  weeks  ago  we  talked  about  our  opinions  at 
my  house,  and  I  trust  I  showed  you  where  I  stand, 
although  I  may  not  hope  to  have  made  it  clear  to  you 
where  you  stand.  I  desired  to  place  the  one  side  of 
the  question  in  a  glaring  light.  The  other  side  is 
still  in  the  dark  between  us:  that  of  policy.  In 
shedding  a  light  on  it,  too,  this  evening,  I  assume 
you  are  convinced  that  it  is  not  moral  or  kindred 
scruples  that  move  me  to  say  to  you :  I  consider  the 
policy  which  you  pursue,  the  so-called  'propaganda 
of  deed,'-  not  alone  as  useless,  but  also  as  harmful. 
You  will  never  win  a  lasting  victory  by  it." 

Trupp's  eyes  were  firmly  fixed  on  the  speaker. 
They  flashed  with  excitement,  and  his  bleeding  hand, 
wrapped  in  a  cloth,  fell  clinched  on  the  table. 

"It  is  well  that  we  talk!"  he  exclaimed.  "You 
demand,  then,  that  we  should  idly  fold  our  hands 
and  calmly  allow  ourselves  to  be  killed  ?  " 

He  sprang  up. 

"  You  defend  our  enemies !  "  he  ejaculated. 

"On  the  contrary,  I  have  discovered  a  weapon 
against  which  they  are  powerless,"  said  Auban, 
calmly,  and  placed  his  hand  on  the  arm  of  his  excited 
friend,  forcing  him  back  to  his  place. 

"I  hate  force  in  every  form!"  he  continued;  and 
now  he  seemed  to  be  the  one  who  wished  to  convince 
and  win  the  other  over  to  his  idea.  "  The  important 
thing  is  to  make  force  impossible.  That  is  not  done 
by  opposing  force  by  force:  the  devil  will  not  be 
driven  out  by  Beelzebub.  .  .  .  Already  you  have 
changed  your  opinions  on  some  points.  Once  you 
championed  the  secret  societies  and  the  large  associ- 
ations which  were  to  unite  the  proletaires  of  all  lands 
and  all  tongues ;  then  you  became  aware  how  easy 


The  Propaganda  of  Communism.  251 

it  was  for  the  government  to  smuggle  one  of  its  dirty 
tools  into  the  former,  who  at  once  seizes  all  your 
clews,  and  how  in  every  instance  the  latter  have 
broken  up,  yielded  to  time  and  to  their  own  fate ;  and 
since  then  you  have  more  and  more  fallen  back  on  the 
individual  and  preach  as  the  only  expedient  method 
the  forming  of  small  groups,  which  know  next  to 
nothing  about  each  other,  and  the  individual  deed 
as  the  only  correct  thing;  since  then  you  even  con- 
demn confidence  among  the  most  intimate  friends  in 
certain  cases.  Once  your  paper  was  published  in 
'Nowhere  '  by  the  'Free  Common  Press  ';  now  it  is 
published  like  every  other  paper  with  the  name  and 
address  of  the  printer  on  the  last  page.  .  .  .  And 
thus  everything,  the  entire  movement,  has  been  more 
and  more  placed  in  the  light  of  publicity." 

He  paused  a  moment. 

Then  he  said  impressively:  — 

"  Your  entire  policy  is  a  false  one.  Let  us  never 
forget  that  we  are  engaged  in  war. 

"But  what  is  the  alpha  and  omega  of  all  warfare? 
Every  lieutenant  can  tell  you. 

"To  deal  the  heaviest  possible  blows  against  the 
enemy  at  the  least  possible  cost  to  yourself. 

"Modern  warfare  recognizes  more  and  more  the 
value  of  the  defensive ;  it  condemns  more  and  more 
the  useless  attack. 

"  Let  us  learn  from  it,  as  we  ought  to  learn  from 
everything  that  can  in  any  way  profit  us. 

"  But  my  objections  are  of  a  far  more  serious  kind. 
I  accuse  you  even  of  ignoring  the  very  first  condition 
of  all  warfare:  of  neglecting  to  inform  yourselves 
concerning  your  own  and  the  enemy's  forces. 

"It  must  be  said:  you  overrate  yourselves  and 
underrate  the  enemy! " 

"And  what,"  asked  Trupp,  scornfully,  "are  we  to 
do,  if  I  may  ask?" 

"  What  you  are  to  do,  I  do  not  know.  You  must 
know  yourselves.  But  I  assert:  passive  resistance 


*  252  The  Anarchists. 

against  aggressive  force  is  the  only  means  to  break 
it." 

Trupp  laughed,  and  a  lively  conversation  arose 
between  the  two  men.  Each  defended  his  policy, 
illustrating  its  effectiveness  by  examples. 

It  was  late  when  they  closed :  Auban  persuaded  of 
the  impossibility  of  convincing  his  friend,  and  the 
latter  embittered  and  irritated  by  his  "apostasy." 

They  left  the  public  house,  and  quickly  reached 
the  place  where  Tottenham  Court  Road  meets  with 
Oxford  Street  and  the  streets  from  the  south. 
Entering  one  of  the  narrower  and  less  crowded 
thoroughfares  they  walked  up  and  down,  and  said 
their  final  and  decisive  words. 

"  You  work  into  the  hands  of  the  government  by 
your  propaganda.  You  fulfil  their  dearest  wishes. 
Nothing  comes  more  opportunely  to  them  than  your 
policy,  which  enables  them  to  employ  means  of 
oppression  for  which  they  would  else  lack  all  excuse. 
Proof:  the  agents  provocateurs  who  instigate  such 
deeds  in  their  service.  There  is  a  ghastly  humor  in 
the  thought  that  you  are  —  the  voluntary  accomplices 
of  authority,  you  who  want  liberty !  "  .  .  . 

He  ceased,  while  from  afar  the  tumult  of  Oxford 
Street  came  into  that  dark  and  quiet  side  street  which 
was  frequented  only  by  a  few  timid  forms  which  had 
separated  themselves  from  the  stream  of  humanity  of 
the  main  thoroughfare,  like  sparkling  embers  from 
an  ash-heap. 

Trupp  stood  still.  By  the  suppressed  tone  of  his 
voice,  Auban  knew  how  hard  it  was  for  him  to  say 
what  he  had  to  say. 

"You  are  no  longer  a  revolutionist!  You  have 
renounced  the  grand  cause  of  humanity.  Formerly 
you  understood  us,  and  we  understood  you.  Now 
we  no  longer  understand  you,  because  you  no  longer 
understand  us.  You  have  become  a  bourgeois.  Or 
rather:  you  have  always  been  a  bourgeois.  Return 
whence  you  came.  We  shall  reach  our  aim  without 

you." 


The  Propaganda  of  Communism.  253 

Auban  laughed.  He  laughed  so  loudly  that  the 
passers-by  stopped  and  looked  round.  And  that  loud, 
full,  clear  laugh,  which  showed  how  little  those 
words  hurt  him,  formed  an  outlet  for  what  had  op- 
pressed his  breast  these  last  days. 

"/not  understand  you,  Otto!"  he  said,  while 
his  laughter  yielded  to  the  earnestness  of  his  words. 
"  You  do  not  believe  yourself  what  you  say.  I  not 
understand  you,  I  who  for  years  felt  with  your  feel- 
ings and  thought  with  your  thoughts !  If  you  were 
to  set  fire  to  the  cities  in  a  hundred  points  at  once, 
if  you  were  to  desolate  the  countries  as  far  as  your 
power  extended,  if  you  were  to  blow  up  the  earth  or 
to  drown  it  in  blood,  —  I  should  understand  you !  If 
you  were  to  take  revenge  on  your  enemies  by  exter- 
minating them  one  and  all,  —  I  could  understand  it! 
And  if  it  were  necessary  in  order  to  at  last  achieve 
liberty  —  I  should  join  your  ranks  and  fight  unto  my 
latest  breath!  I  understand  you,  but  I  no  longer 
believe  in  the  violent  progress  of  things.  And  be- 
cause I  no  longer  believe  in  it,  I  condemn  force  as 
the  weapon  of  the  foolish  and  the  blind."  .  .  . 

And  as  he  recalled  what  Trupp  had  just  said,  he 
again  had  to  laugh,  and  he  closed :  — 

"Indeed,  after  all  you  have  told  me  to-day  it  is 
only  necessary  to  add  that  I  condemn  the  policy  of 
force  in  order  —  to  spare  the  enemy!  " 

But  again  his  laughter  was  silenced  as  his  look 
met  that  of  Trupp,  who  said,  in  a  hard  and  almost 
hostile  voice:  — 

"  He  that  is  not  with  us  is  against  us! " 

The  two  men  stood  opposite  each  other,  so  closely 
that  their  breasts  seemed  to  touch.  Their  eyes  met 
in  iron  determination. 

"Very  well,"  said  Auban,  and  his  voice  was  as 
calm  as  ever,  "continue  to  throw  bombs,  and  con- 
tinue to  suffer  hanging  for  it,  if  you  will  never  grow 
wise.  I  am  the  last  to  deny  the  suicide  the  right  of 
destroying  himself.  But  you  preach  your  policy  as 


254  The  Anarchists. 

a  duty  towards  mankind,  while  you  do  not  exemplify 
it  in  your  lives.  It  is  that  against  which  I  protest. 
You  assume  a  tremendous  responsibility:  the  respon- 
sibility for  the  life  of  others."  .  .  . 

"For  the  happiness  of  mankind  sacrifices  must  be 
made,"  said  Trupp,  frowning. 

"Then  make  a  sacrifice  of  yourselves!"  cried 
Auban.  "Then  be  men,  not  talkers!  If  you  really 
believe  in  the  emancipation  of  mankind  by  means  of 
force,  and  if  no  experiences  can  cure  you  of  that  mad 
faith,  then  act  instead  of  sitting  in  your  clubs  and 
intoxicating  yourselves  with  your  phrases!  Then 
shake  the  world  with  your  bombs,  turn  upon  it  the 
face  of  horror,  so  that  it  shall  fear  you  instead  of  only 
hating  you  as  now !  "  .  .  . 

Trupp  grew  pale.  Never  had  the  sorest  of  all 
spots  between  them  been  touched  so  mercilessly. 

"What  I  shall  do,  and  I  can  speak  only  for  myself, 
you  do  not  know.  But  you  will  some  day  see,"  he 
muttered.  Auban's  words  had  not  applied  to  him. 
His  was  a  nature  which  knew  neither  cowardice  nor 
indecision,  and  which  was  strong  enough  to  accom- 
plish what  it  promised.  But  he  felt  with  bitterness 
how  true  the  accusation  was  in  general  which  he  had 
just  heard. 

And  he  deliberately  brought  the  conversation  to  a 
close  by  saying :  — 

"What  are  we  to  each  other  any  longer?  My  life 
is  my  cause.  You  became  my  friend  because  you 
were  my  comrade.  My  comrades  are  my  friends.  I 
know  of  no  other  friendship.  You  have  renounced 
the  cause  —  we  have  nothing  in  common  any  longer. 
You  will  not  betray  it,  but  you  will  no  longer  be  of 
any  service  to  it,  such  as  you  now  are.  It  is  better 
we  part." 

Auban's  excitement  had  again  subsided. 

"  You  must  act  as  you  consider  best,  Otto.  If  you 
want  me,  you  will  find  me  by  following  the  course 
of  liberty.  But  where  are  you  going?" 


The  Propaganda  of  Communism.  255 

"  I  go  with  my  brothers,  who  suffer  as  I  do !  " 

They  took  each  other's  hand  with  the  same  firm 
grasp  as  ever. 

Then  they  separated:  each  going  his  own  long, 
solitary  way,  absorbed  in  thoughts  which  were  as 
different  as  the  course  they  took.  They  knew  that 
a  long  time  would  pass  before  they  would  meet  again ; 
and  they  suspected  that  on  the  present  evening  they 
had  spoken  together  alone  for  the  last  time. 

Till  now  they  had  been  friends ;  henceforth  they 
would  be  opponents,  although  opponents  in  the 
struggle  for  an  ideal  which  both  called  by  the  same 
name:  liberty. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

TRAFALGAR   SQUARE. 

LONDON  was  in  a  fever. 

It  reached  its  highest  point  on  the  second  Sunday 
of  November,  the  Sunday  following  the  events  of 
Chicago. 

Among  the  many  memorable  days  of  that  memor- 
able year  this  thirteenth  of  November  was  destined 
to  take  a  most  prominent  place. 

For  a  month,  according  to  the  whim  of  the  police 
authorities,  the  "  unemployed  "  had  been  alternately 
driven  from  and  admitted  to  Trafalgar  Square,  the 
most  accessible  public  meeting  ground  of  the  city. 

This  condition  was  intolerable  for  any  length  of 
time.  The  complaints  of  the  starving  masses  grew 
more  and  more  desperate,  while  the  hotel-keepers 
and  pawnbrokers  considered  the  meetings  as  harm- 
ful to  their  business  and  invoked  the  protection  of 
their  servants,  the  "organs  of  public  power." 

At  the  beginning  of  the  month  a  decree  of  the 
police  commissioner  interdicted  the  further  holding 
of  meetings  on  Trafalgar  Square. 

For  thirty  years  this  place,  "the  finest  site  of 
Europe,"  had  been  used  by  all  parties  at  innumerable 
gatherings  on  the  most  varied  occasions.  A  stroke 
of  the  hand  was  to  drive  them  all  away. 

The  first  question  raised  was  that  of  the  "  legality  " 
of  this  despotic  measure.  The  columns  of  the  news- 
papers were  filled  with  paragraphs  from  antiquated 
statute-books,  which  were  paralleled  by  some  taken 
from  still  older  volumes :  those  insignia  of  a  usurped 
power  which  fill  all  who  have  been  reared  in  the 
256 


Trafalgar  Square.  257 

faith  of  human  authority  with  the  mysterious  awe  of 
the  inscrutable. 

It  is  said  that  every  citizen  of  the  State  helps  make 
the  laws  of  his  country.  But  is  there  a  single  man 
among  the  thousands  who  knows  what  57  George 
III.  cap.  19,  sec.  23,  or  2  and  3  Vic.  c.  47,  sec.  52 
means?  Hieroglyphics. 

To  the  chief  of  police  it  was  of  course  a  matter  of 
perfect  indifference  whether  his  decree  was  "legal" 
or  "illegal."  If  he  had  the  power  to  enforce  it 
to-day,  it  was  "legal,"  and  Trafalgar  Square  the 
property  of  the  queen  and  the  crown ;  if  the  "  people  " 
was  strong  enough  to  drive  him  and  his  men  to-mor- 
row from  Trafalgar  Square,  the  place  remained  what 
it  had  been,  the  "property  of  the  people,"  and  every- 
body could  talk  on  it  as  much  and  as  long  as  he 
found  hearers  who  listened  to  him,  or  longer. 

The  question  of  the  unemployed  was  pushed  into 
the  background  at  a  blow.  The  Tory  administration 
was  suddenly  opposed  by  the  radical  and  liberal 
parties  in  battle  array,  who  re-enforced  the  Socialists, 
and  raised  against  the  "  terrorism  "  of  the  former  their 
cry  of  the  inalienable  "right  of  free  speech." 

They  decided  to  hold  a  public  meeting  on  Trafal- 
gar Square  on  Sunday,  the  thirteenth,  with  the 
programme:  "Protest  against  the  recent  imprison- 
ment of  an  Irish  leader." 

The  preparations  for  the  battle  were  conducted  on 
both  sides  with  feverish  zeal:  the  Tories  were  firmly 
resolved  not  to  stop  short  of  the  shedding  of  blood  in 
beating  down  any  attempt  at  occupying  the  Square, 
while  the  opposition  parties  were  equally  determined 
on  capturing  it  at  any  cost. 

The  excitement  in  the  city  had  been  growing  daily. 
On  Saturday  the  authorities  published  a  second 
ukase  interdicting  the  approach  of  the  Square  on 
Sunday  in  the  form  of  a  procession. 

There  were  not  a  few  who  believed  they  were  on 
the  eve  of  a  revolution.  . 


258  The  Anarchists. 

Auban  had  risen  later  than  usual.  His  head  felt 
dull.  Nevertheless,  he  had  taken  up  his  work.  But 
he  was  interrupted  by  a  caller. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  he  read  the  name 
"Frederick  Waller"  on  the  card  that  was  handed 
him.  What  did  that  man  still  want  of  him?  As  a 
boy  he  had  offered  him  his  friendship,  which  Auban 
had  not  desired.  Later, — he  had  built  up  a  large 
business  in  Lothringia  and  travelled  a  great  deal, — 
he  had  twice  called  on  him  in  Paris,  and  Auban  had 
explained  those  visits  by  the  fact  of  his  temporary 
popularity,  received  him  coolly,  and  dismissed  him 
coolly.  Now,  after  years,  this  man  again  approached 
him,  with  whom  he  had  not  a  thought,  not  a  senti- 
ment, in  common,  and  who  belonged  to  a  circle  of 
people  who  had  always  been  hateful  to  him  in  his 
inmost  soul.  But  now  he  wanted  to  learn  what 
brought  him  to  him. 

He  wanted  to  directly  ask  him  what  his  intentions 
were.  But  the  other  anticipated  him  by  remarking 
that  it  was  his  duty  not  to  entirely  lose  sight  of  his 
relatives.  It  was  the  same  curious  interest  in  the 
strange  life  which  had  once  drawn  him  to  the  boy. 
He  knew  little  about  Auban.  But  as  he  suspected 
his  radical  views,  he  said  confidentially  that  he,  too, 
was  anything  but  conservative,  but  that  Auban 
would  certainly  understand  how  much  his  position 
compelled  him  to  exercise  the  greatest  caution.  But 
Auban  had  neither  patience  nor  understanding  for 
men  of  that  stamp.  He  wrapped  himself  in  his 
frigid  superiority,  entirely  ignored  the  question  of 
his  relative  after  his  own  life,  made  no  inquiries,  and 
expressed  his  opinions  with  their  original  harshness. 
When  the  visitor  went  away,  he  felt  as  if  he  had 
been  overtaken  listening  at  a  strange  door,  and  he 
made  up  his  mind  never  again  to  repeat  the  attempt 
to  get  at  Auban,  who  had  this  time  plainly  shown 
him  how  little  he  thought  of  him  and  his  entire 
kith  and  kin. 


Trafalgar  Square.  259 

In  Auban  this  call  awakened  memories  of  long  past 
years,  which  he  followed  up  for  a  long  time. 

What  a  difference  between  then  and  now ! 

And  yet  it  seemed  to  him  sometimes  as  if  his 
present  self  were  more  like  the  boy  who,  alone  and 
reserved,  labored  to  open  the  iron  gates  of  truth  in 
the  quiet  nights  when  no  one  saw  him,  with  his  soft 
and  unskilled  fingers,  than  like  the  youth  who  once 
presumed  to  storm  them  with  fire  and  sword. 

His  was  not  a  nature  capable  of  permanently 
occupying  a  position  exposing  him  on  all  sides  to 
the  gaze  of  a  thousand  eyes.  He  did  not  possess 
enough  of  levity,  of  ambition,  of  conceit,  of  self- 
complacency  for  that. 

It  was  well  that  his  fate  had  taken  such  a 
turn.  .  .  . 

It  was  about  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 

• 

Auban  was  slowly  coming  from  the  north  of  the  city. 

All  the  streets  he  passed  were  almost  deserted. 
Only  Oxford  Street  showed  stray  signs  of  life.  It 
was  not  far  from  four  o'clock  when  he  approached 
Trafalgar  Square.  At  St.  Martin's  Lane  he  had  to 
stop:  crowds  of  men  obstructed  the  neighboring 
entrances  of  the  side  streets.  He  had  arrived  at  the 
very  moment  when  one  of  the  four  processions  which 
at  that  hour  tried  to  get  access  to  the  Square  from 
four  different  sides,  the  one  coming  from  Clerken- 
well  Green,  came  into  collision  with  the  police 
awaiting  it  here.  He  forced  his  way  to  the  front  as 
far  as  he  could,  but  it  was  impossible  for  him  to 
break  through  the  last  line  of  the  crowd.  He  had  to 
look  between  the  heads  and  over  them  to  see  what 
was  going  on  beyond. 

The  procession  was  headed  by  a  woman.  She 
carried  a  red  flag.  Auban  took  her  and  the  men 
surrounding  her,  who  grasped  their  canes  more  firmly, 
for  members  of  the  Socialist  League.  Directly 
behind  the  flag-bearer  came  the  music.  They  played 


260  The  Anarchists. 

the  Marseillaise.  The  procession  was  pretty  long. 
Auban  could  not  see  it  all.  Only  waving  flags  rose 
ahove  the  black  throng. 

In  closed  ranks  the  police  awaited  the  procession. 
Holding  in  readiness  their  oaken  clubs,  they  watched 
for  the  sign  of  attack  from  the  superintendent. 

When  the  procession  had  come  up  to  them  within 
a  horse's  length,  calls  passed  .back  and  forth,  while 
at  the  same  time  the  police  made  such  a  savage  attack 
that  the  closed  ranks  of  the  procession  seemed  as  if 
torn  asunder.  A  fierce  hand-to-hand  fight  followed. 
One  tall  policeman  had  sprung  upon  the  woman  and 
torn  the  flag  out  of  her  hands,  which  she  held  high 
in  the  air  with  all  her  strength.  She  staggered  and 
fell  down  in  a  swoon,  while  a  violent  blow  of  a  cane 
struck  the  neck  of  her  assailant.  The  musicians 
fought  for  their  instruments,  which  were  taken  from 
them,  trampled  on,  and  demolished.  Some  tfied  to 
save  them  by  flight.  With  iron  might  the  police 
handled  their  clubs,  unconcerned  where  they  struck. 
The  attacked  made  a  desperate  defence.  Most  of 
them  carried  heavy  canes  and  struck  about  them  in 
mad  rage.  The  confusion  was  indescribable.  The 
air  was  filled  with  curses,  cries  of  pain,  words  of  abuse, 
the  shrill  howl  of  the  multitude  which,  wherever  it 
could,  threw  itself  into  the  fight,  dull  blows,  the 
tramp  of  heavy  shoes  on  the  hard  pavement,  the 
breaking  of  lanterns  struck  by  stones.  .  .  .  People 
beat,  kicked,  scratched  each  other,  sought  to  trip 
one  another  up,  got  entangled  in  a  tight  grip,  pull- 
ing one  another  down. 

Farther  and  farther  the  police  pushed  forward, 
driving  the  crowd  before  them,  surrounded  by  it, 
but,  mutually  rushing  to  each  other's  aid,  scattering 
it  by  the  blows  of  their  clubs.  Farther  and  farther 
the  attacked  receded..  There  was  no  longer  a  trace 
of  discipline  among  them.  Some  escaped  in  dis- 
orderly flight,  others  fought  on  the  spot  where  they 
stood  until  they  were  overpowered,  seized,  and  led 


Trafalgar  Square.  261 

away.  After  ten  minutes  the  victory  of  the  uniforms 
was  decided:  the  flags  were  captured,  the  musical 
instruments  demolished,  the  entire  procession  routed. 
.  .  .  Some  of  the  last  of  its  ranks  were  pursued 
through  the  whole  length  of  St.  Martin's  Lane,  some 
driven  into  the  side  streets,  where  they  mixed  with 
the  howling  crowd  and  were  carried  away  by  it  in 
hopeless  confusion. 

Auban  also.  He  saw  how  a  small  division  of  the 
police,  with  their  clubs  in  the  air,  came  rushing 
towards  the  entrance  of  the  street  where  he  stood, 
felt  how  the  crowd  enclosing  him  got  into  motion, 
and,  irresistibly  carried  away  by  it,  he  found  himself 
the  next  minute  at  the  other  end  of  the  street,  where 
angry  speech,  laughter,  and  howling  gave  relief  to 
the  terror  of  the  outraged  crowd. 

Then  everything  again  streamed  in  the  direction 
of  Trafalgar  Square.  Auban  also.  He  wished  to 
reach  it  without  again  getting  into  too  great  a  throng. 
But  he  could  go  by  no  other  route  than  that  leading 
by  the  church  of  St.  Martin. 

After  what  he  had  just  seen,  he  was  convinced 
that  none  of  the  processions  would  ever  be  able  to 
gain  access  to  the  Square.  .  .  . 


Trafalgar  Square  lay  before  him:  bounded  on  the 
north  by  the  severe  structure  of  the  National  Gallery, 
by  great  club-houses  and  hotels  on  the  east  and  west, 
it  slopes  gradually  towards  the  south,  where  it 
broadens  once  more  before  it  ends  in  a  number  of 
wide  streets. 

Its  interior  lower  surface,  formed  by  the  terraces 
of  the  streets  and  bearing  as  an  imposing  feature  the 
Nelson  Column  at  the  south,  that  large,  cold,  empty 
surface,  adorned  only  by  two  immense  fountains,  was 
to-day  completely  in  possession  of  the  authorities; 
as  Auban  saw  at  a  glance. 

He  became  alarmed  as  he  thought  that  the  attempt 


262  The  Anarchists. 

might  be  made  to  drive  from  the  place  a  force  which, 
if  not  in  numbers,  was  infinitely  superior  in  disci- 
pline and  military  skill.  It  was  indeed  an  army 
that  was  stationed  there :  a  superficial  estimate  fixed 
its  strength  at  from  three  to  four  thousand  men. 
Who  could  drive  it  away  ?  Not  fifty,  not  a  hundred 
thousand. 

He  left  his  place,  and  slowly  drifted  past  the 
National  Gallery.  Here  the  surging  crowds  were 
kept  in  constant  motion  by  the  police.  Where  the 
constables  saw  a  crowd,  there  they  directed  their 
attacks,  by  driving  the  wedge  of  their  men  into  it. 
Every  man  who  remained  standing  was  incessantly 
commanded  to  "  Move  on !  Move  on !  " 

Walking  down  the  west  side,  Auban  now  became 
convinced,  at  every  step  he  took,  of  the  well-consid- 
ered plan  of  all  these  preparations.  The  steps  lead- 
ing to  the  north  were  strongly  garrisoned.  Here, 
and  along  the  two  other  enclosed  sides,  a  double  line 
of  policemen  made  it  utterly  impossible  to  climb  over 
the  enclosure  and  jump  into  the  Square. 

A  reporter  who  knew  Auban  gave  him  a  few 
figures  which  he  had  just  learned  and  was  now  put- 
ting in  his  note-book,  while  Auban  furnished  him 
with  some  details  concerning  the  Clerkenwell  pro- 
cession. The  police  had  occupied  the  Square  already 
since  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Since  twelve 
in  full  force.  About  one  thousand  five  hundred  con- 
stables and  three  thousand  policemen  had  been  sum- 
moned from  all  parts  of  London,  besides  several 
hundred  mounted  police.  The  Life  and  the  Grena- 
dier Guards  were  being  held  in  reserve. 

The  southern  open  side  of  the  Square,  in  the  centre 
of  which  the  Nelson  Column  rises  on  an  immense 
base  guarded  by  four  gigantic  lions,  was  most  strongly 
garrisoned,  since  no  wall  obstructed  the  entrance 
there.  The  "protectors  of  order"  guarded  the  place 
here  in  lines  four  and  five  men  deep ;  and  a  long  line 
of  mounted  police  was  stationed  here,  who  from  time 
to  time  flanked  the  streets. 


Trafalgar  Square.  263 

Here,  in  the  wide  space  in  front  of  the  column 
which  is  formed  by  the  meeting  of  four  large  streets, 
here,  around  the  monument  of  Charles  I.,  the  crowds 
seemed  densest.  The  masses  appeared  to  grow  larger 
from  minute  to  minute.  From  all  sides  portions  of 
the  scattered  processions  congregated  here  in  smaller 
or  larger  bands,  no  longer  with  flags  and  music  and 
courageous  spirits,  but  clasped  together  arm  in  arm, 
incensed  by  their  defeat  to  the  last  degree,  no  longer 
hopeful  of  still  capturing  the  place,  but  determined 
to  have  their  revenge  in  minor  collisions. 

Auban  studied  the  physiognomy  of  the  crowd. 
Out  of  every  five  certainly  two  were  curiosity-seekers, 
who  had  come  to  enjoy  a  rare  spectacle.  They  will- 
ingly went  wherever  the  police  drove  them.  But 
surely  many  a  one  among  them  lost  his  equanimity 
in  witnessing  the  brutalities  that  were  committed 
about  him,  and  by  taking  sides  with  the  attacked, 
became  a  participant  in  the  event  of  the  day  against 
his  will.  Another  fifth  certainly  consisted  of  the 
"  mob  " :  fishers  in  troubled  waters,  professional  pick- 
pockets, ruffians,  idlers  who  make  a  better  living 
than  the  honest  workingman,  pimps  —  in  short,  of 
all  those  who  are  always  on  hand,  as  nothing  binds 
them.  They  were  mostly  very  young.  As  the  most 
personal  enemies  of  the  police,  with  whom  they  are 
engaged  in  daily  struggle,  they  allowed  no  opportu- 
nity to  pass  in  taking  their  revenge  on  them.  Armed 
with  stones,  sticks,  and  pocket-knives,  they  inflicted 
painful  injuries  upon  the  police;  whereupon  they 
escaped  as  quick  as  lightning,  disappearing  in  the 
crowds  without  leaving  a  trace  and  emerging  at 
another  place  the  next  minute  with  loud  howls  and 
shrieks,  to  vent  their  spite  afresh.  They  were  pres- 
ent, moreover,  at  all  collisions,  aggravating  the 
tumult,  intensifying  the  confusion,  exasperating  the 
rage  to  the  highest  pitch  by  their  wild  shrieks. 
There  remained  only  two-fifths,  who  consisted  of 
those  who  were  directly  interested  in  the  present 


264  The  Anarchists. 

afternoon:  those  who  saw  in  the  struggle  an  impor- 
tant political  action,  the  members  of  the  radical 
parties,  the  Socialists,  the  unemployed.  .  .  .  And 
those  truly  interested  persons  who  had  not  been 
attracted  by  curiosity,  the  observing  and  thoughtful 
spectators  to  whom  he  himself  belonged. 

He  had  arrived  at  the  south  end  of  the  place,  half 
jostled,  half  pushed.  Here  the  crowding  was  intense 
and  the  masses  were  steadily  growing  more  excited. 
It  had  just  struck  four  o'clock:  Auban  saw  the  hands 
on  Dent's  clock.  At  the  foot  of  the  Nelson  Column 
a  violent  collision  took  place.  Two  men,  a  Socialist 
leader  and  a  radical  member  of  parliament,  undertook 
to  gain  admission  by  force.  After  a  short  hand-to- 
hand  fight,  they  were  overpowered  and  arrested. 

Auban  could  not  see  anything  but  clubs  and  sticks 
swinging  in  the  air,  and  uplifted  arms.  .  .  . 

He  tried  to  go  on,  but  met  with  difficulties.  The 
mounted  police  continually  flanked  the  way  between 
the  column  and  the  monument  of  Charles  I.,  in  order 
to  keep  it  clear.  The  masses,  wedged  in  as  they 
were,  began  to  scatter  in  all  directions:  gathered 
into  small  groups,  filled  with  fear,  around  the  lantern 
posts;  fled  down  Whitehall;  or  were  pushed  close 
against  the  lines  of  the  police,  by  whom  they  were 
brutally  driven  away. 

Auban  waited  until  the  riders  had  galloped  by, 
and  then  reached  one  of  the  crossings  where  he  felt 
secure  beside  the  lantern  post.  But  a  constable 
drove  away  the  crowd  gathering  here.  "Move  on, 
sir!  "  he  commanded  Auban  too.  But  Auban  looked 
calmly  into  the  flushed  face  of  the  angry  man,  and 
pointed  to  the  horses  that  again  came  storming 
towards  him.  "Where  to?"  he  asked.  "Must  I 
let  those  horses  ride  over  me  or  rush  into  the  clubs 
of  your  men  ?  "  His  calmness  made  an  impression. 
When  the  street  was  again  clear  for  half  a  minute, 
he  safely  reached  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  Morley's 
Hotel  on  the  east  side  of  the  Square. 


Trafalgar  Square.  265 

There  he  was  suddenly  seized  by  the  arm.  Before 
him  stood  an  English  acquaintance.  His  collar  was 
torn,  his  hat  soiled.  He  was  in  a  state  of  the  great- 
est excitement.  After  a  few  hasty  questions  back 
and  forth,  he  said  that  the  long  procession  from  the 
south  had  also  been  dispersed. 

While  they  —  kept  on  the  move  by  the  police  — 
held  closely  together  in  order  not  to  be  separated, 
and  drifted  to  and  fro  with  the  crowd  into  which 
they  were  wedged,  the  Englishman  said,  with  breath- 
less haste :  — 

"We  gathered  at  Rotherhithe:  the  radical  and 
other  societies  and  clubs  of  Rotherhithe,  Bermondsey, 
etc.,  met  on  our  way  the  Peckham  Radical  Club,  the 
associations  of  Camberwell  and  Walworth,  and  in 
Westminster  Bridge  Road  also  those  of  St.  Georges 
—  it  was  an  enormous  procession,  with  numerous 
banners,  music  bands,  adorned  with  green,  accom- 
panied by  an  endless  mass  of  people  on  both  sides, 
which  in  the  best  of  order  crossed  the  entirely  vacant 
bridge  of  Westminster. 

"  As  was  agreed,  we  were  to  meet  with  the  proces- 
sion from  Lambeth  and  Battersea  in  Bridge  Street  at 
Parliament  House.  Then  we  were  to  march  in  a 
straight  line  from  south  to  north,  up  Whitehall,  to 
this  place.  Just  imagine:  a  single  great  procession 
of  imposing  length,  representing  the  entire  south  of 
London,  the  entire  section  of  the  city  on  the  other 
side  of  the  Thames  —  from  Woolwich  and  Greenwich 
to  Battersea  and  Wandworth!  .  .  . 

"But  our  two  processions  had  not  joined  each 
other,  we  had  not  reached  Parliament  Street,  when 
the  battle  began.  I  was  pretty  far  in  the  front  ranks. 
Ah,  the  brutes,  galloping  on  their  horses  into  our 
ranks,  breaking  and  tearing  our  flags,  knocking 
down  whatever  comes  in  their  way! " 

"It  was  fortunate  you  did  not  get  farther,"  Auban 
interrupted  him,  "for  I  have  heard  that  the  Life 
Guards  were  held  in  reserve  in  Whitehall.  I  am 


266  The  Anarchists. 

surprised  that  they  are  not  yet  here,  for  the  situation 
is  getting  more  serious." 

"  But  we  defended  ourselves,"  exclaimed  the  other, 
"  with  my  loaded  cane  I  gave  one  — 

He  did  not  finish  his  sentence.  For  a  division  of 
the  police  began  to  clear  the  sidewalk,  dispersed  the 
throng  congregated  there,  and  the  next  minute 
Auban  was  again  alone.  He  was  again  near  Morley's 
Hotel;  the  steps  had  just  been  cleared  to  the  last 
man,  but  were  again  occupied  with  the  rapidity  of 
lightning.  Auban  secured  an  elevated  position.  .  .  . 

From  here  the  place  and  its  surroundings  could  be 
easily  overlooked,  and  presented  a  grand  view.  For 
four  hours  the  multitude  that  surged  around  it  had 
been  steadily  growing  and  seemed  now  to  have 
reached  the  limit  of  its  size  as  well  as  the  culmina- 
tion of  its  excitement.  The  windows  and  balconies 
of  the  neighboring  houses  were  occupied  to  the  last 
corner  by  the  spectators  of  this  wholly  unusual  and 
singular  sight  who  followed  every  collision  between 
police  and  the  people  with  passionate  interest  and 
applauded  the  brutalities  of  the  former.  On  the 
balconies  of  the  club-houses  lying  opposite,  the  gilded 
youth  of  London  indulged  in  the  innocent  pleasure, 
as  Auban  had  observed  before,  of  spitting  on  the 
"mob,"  against  whose  wrath  they  felt  as  secure  in 
their  high  position  as  in  a  church.  .  .  . 

In  the  south  of  the  place,  there  where  the  masses 
surged  through  the  wide  bed  of  the  streets  like  a 
wildly  swollen  stream,  the  situation  seemed  to  grow 
more  and  more  serious.  Nevertheless,  the  traffic  of 
omnibuses,  often  interrupted,  went  on.  Crowded 
to  overflowing,  the  heavy  vehicles  moved  on  step  by 
step.  Like  ships  they  floated  through  the  black 
human  flood.  On  their  tops  stood  excited  men  who 
gesticulated  with  their  hands  in  the  air,  and  improved 
the  opportunity  of  saying  at  least  a  few  sympathetic 
words  to  the  multitude  below.  The  horses  and 
wheels  made  passages  for  swarms  of  people,  who 
followed  each  vehicle  like  so  many  tails. 


Trafalgar  Square.  267 

There  Auban  suddenly  saw  an  extraordinary 
excitement,  like  an  electric  current,  passing  through 
the  masses  and  coming  nearer  and  nearer.  Faster 
than  before,  they  scattered  in  all  directions,  and 
louder  and  more  frightened  grew  the  cries  and  calls. 
What  was  it  ? 

Horsemen  appeared. 

And:  — 

"  The  Life  Guards !  "  exclaimed  a  hundred  voices. 
The  police  seemed  forgotten.  All  eyes  hung  on  the 
shining  cuirasses  and  the  tufted  helmets  of  the  riders, 
who,  about  two  hundred  in  number, slowly  approached 
the  Nelson  Column,  then  turned  to  the  right,  and  in 
quiet  march  proceeded  on  the  way  to  the  National 
Gallery,  past  the  steps  where  Auban  stood. 

A  man  in  civilian's  dress  rode  at  the  head,  between 
the  commanding  officers,  a  roll  of  paper  in  his  hand. 

And:  — 

"The  Riots  Act!"  exclaimed  again  the  voices. 
The  representative  of  the  magistrate  of  the  city  was 
received  with  loud  cries. 

"We  are  all  good  Englishmen  and  law-abiding 
citizens  —  we  need  no  —  "  cried  one. 

"You    damned    fool,    put    away  your   paper  — 
another. 

Just  as  the  troops  were  passing  the  steps  where 
Auban  stood,  he  heard  how  the  heavy  tramp  of  the 
hoofs  on  the  hard  pavement  was  drowned  by  the  cries 
of  applause,  the  clapping  of  hands,  the  jubilant 
shouts  of  the  surrounding  crowds,  and  he  distrusted 
his  ears.  Were  these  really  signs  of  applause?  It 
was  not  possible.  It  could  only  be  mockery  and 
scorn.  But  the  exultation  of  the  crowd  at  the 
unexpected  spectacle  of  that  glittering  tin,  that 
pompous  procession,  was  so  spontaneous,  and  so  well 
calculated  was  the  effect  of  the  latter,  that  he  could 
no  longer  doubt:  the  same  people  who  but  a  minute 
before  had  covered  the  police,  who  clubbed  them  and 
rode  rough-shod  into  them,  with  the  hissing  of  their 


268  The  Anarchists. 

hate  and  the  howl  of  their  rage,  now  hailed  with 
senseless  pleasure  those  who  had  been  sent  to  shoot 
them  down !  .  .  . 

At  first  Auban  had  incredulously  shaken  his  head. 
Now  he  laughed,  and  a  thought  struck  him.  He 
gave  a  shrill  whistle.  And  behold:  round  about 
him  the  whistle  was  taken  up  and  carried  along 
farther  and  farther,  so  that  for  a  minute  the  clapping 
of  applause  was  drowned  by  that  sign  of  contempt. 
And  Auban  saw  that  now  the  same  people  whistled 
who  before  had  shouted  their  applause. 

Then  he  laughed.  But  his  laughter  soon  gave 
way  to  the  disgust  that  overcame  him  in  the  contem- 
plation of  that  irresponsible  stupidity. 

What  foolish  children!  he  thought.  Just  now 
cruelly  chastised  by  brutal  hands,  they  go  into  rap- 
tures —  like  the  child  over  his  doll  —  over  the  gay 
rags  of  that  ridiculous  outward  show,  without  even 
suspecting  the  terrible  meaning  of  the  childish  play ! 

As  he  resolved  to  escape  that  disgusting  farce  by 
leaving  the  steps  and  the  place,  the  reinforcement 
of  the  Grenadier  Guards  came  moving  along  on  foot 
with  crossed  bayonets,  everywhere  scattering  fear 
and  wild  dismay  by  their  glittering  steel ;  the  steps 
were  filled  by  a  double  number  of  terrified  people, 
who  at  last  —  as  it  seemed  —  began  to  understand 
what  the  issue  was,  and  that  perhaps  an  accident 
might  change  this  play  by  a  turn  of  the  hand  into 
the  most  deadly  earnest.  But  everything  seemed  to 
.pass  off  with  a  threat.  Calmly  the  troops  passed 
several  times  round  the  outside  of  the  Square.  Only 
once,  when  Auban  had  already  reached  the  north  end 
at  St.  Martin's,  he  heard  a  terrible  outcry  of  fear, 
drowning  the  dull  roar  and  tumult,  rise  from  the 
midst  of  the  crowd,  who  were  being  driven  before 
the  steadily  advancing  column  of  bayonets  occupying 
the  entire  width  of  the  street. 

What  had  happened?  Had  anybody  been  stabbed? 
Had  a  woman  been  crushed  in  the  infinite  throng  ? 


Trafalgar  Square.  269 

The  excitement  was  tremendous.  Now,  at  the 
approach  of  dusk,  everybody  seemed  to  be  seized  by 
the  dizziness  of  fear,  although  only  a  few  could 
make  up  their  minds  to  leave  the  place. 


Auban  walked  towards  the  Strand.  For  a  long 
time  the  noise  behind  pursued  him.  He  walked 
until  he  came  to  the  end  of  the  crowds  who  surged 
through  the  streets  surrounding  the  Square  in  a  wide 
circle,  and  where  the  usual  bustle  began.  He  longed 
after  rest  and  seclusion.  Therefore  he  went  to  the 
dining-room  of  one  of  the  large  English  restaurants 
and  sat  there  a  long  time. 

Here  on  the  snowy  linen  of  the  tables  glittered  the 
silver,  and  flowers  exhaled  their  perfume,  while 
the  whole  was  reflected  from  the  high  mirrors  on  the 
walls.  The  guests,  most  of  them  in  full  evening 
dress,  entered  silently  and  took  their  places  with 
dignity,  conscious  of  the  importance  of  the  moment 
which  they  devoted  to  the  study  of  the  menus.  With 
inaudible  steps  the  waiters  passed  over  the  heavily 
carpeted  floor.  Nothing  was  to  be  heard  in  this 
lofty,  aristocratic  room  with  its  subdued  colors,  but 
the  low  clatter  of  plates  and  knives,  the  rustle  of 
silken  trains,  and  occasionally  a  soft,  melodious 
laugh  which  interrupted  the  conversation  carried  on 
in  low  tones.  .  .  . 

Auban  dined  as  simply  as  ever,  only  better  and  at 
a  tenfold  price  which  he  paid  for  his  presence  in  these 
rooms.  And  while  he  observed  the  diners,  he 
involuntarily  compared  their  confident,  easy,  ele- 
gant, but  monotonous  and  uncharacteristic  appear- 
ance with  the  forms  out  of  whose  midst  he  had  come : 
the  heavy,  rude  forms  of  the  people  whom  hunger 
and  privation  had  crushed  and  often  disfigured  until 
they  could  no  longer  be  recognized.  .  .  . 

When  after  an  hour's  rest  he  again  took  the  direc- 
tion of  Trafalgar  Square,  he  happened  to  pass  the 


270  The  Anarchists. 

doors  of  Charing  Cross  Hospital.  The  entrance,  as 
well  as  the  whole  street  on  which  the  hospital  lay, 
was  densely  crowded:  here  the  broken  limbs  were 
again  set  and  the  gashed  heads  mended,  which  had 
resulted  from  the  conflict  on  the  neighboring  battle- 
field. .  .  . 

The  spectacle  was  at  once  serious  and  comical: 
here,  supported  by  two  others,  a  man  came  tottering 
along,  whose  face  was  covered  with  blood  streaming 
from  an  open  wound  on  his  forehead;  there  a  man 
came  out  of  the  door,  his  wounds  just  dressed,  his 
one  arm  in  a  sling,  but  still  holding  in  the  other  his 
broken  wind-instrument.  Here  a  policeman  limped 
along  who  had  fallen  down  with  his  horse ;  and  there 
a  man  who  had  fainted  Avas  carried  on  a  stretcher. 

Auban  came  closer  and  looked  round  in  the  hall  of 
the  hospital.  Along  the  walls  the  enemies  were 
peaceably  sitting  together,  some  with  their  wounds 
already  dressed,  others  waiting  until  one  of  the  assist- 
ants, driven  with  work,  should  take  pity  on  them. 

"  So  far,  we  have  not  met  with  any  very  serious 
injuries,"  said  one  of  the  bystanders. 

What  a  comedy !  thought  Auban.  First  they  crack 
each  other's  skulls,  then  they  let  the  same  hand  mend 
them,  —  an  innocent  pastime.  Pack  schldgt  sich, 
Pack  vertrdgt  sich. 

And  he  walked  on,  forcing  his  way  with  great 
difficulty  through  the  curious  throng  at  the  entrance, 
attracted,  as  it  were,  by  the  fresh  blood,  and  who 
made  way  only  for  the  wounded. 

When  he  had  again  reached  the  Strand,  a  scream- 
ing and  unusually  large  crowd  came  rushing  towards 
him  and  forced  him  to  stop.  The  police  were  now 
driving  the  multitude  far  into  the  side  streets.  .  .  . 

Nevertheless,  he  did  not  wish  to  turn  back  now, 
when  the  wings  of  the  evening  were  already  spread 
over  the  earth,  without  having  cast  another  glance  at 
the  spectacle,  which  must  have  assumed  an  entirely 
different  character  in  the  twilight. 


Trafalgar  Square.  271 

So  he  wanted  to  try  to  reach  the  Square  from  the 
south;  and  in  front  of  Charing  Cross  Station  he 
turned  on  the  left  into  Villiers  Street,  leading  to  the 
Thames.  Then  he  passed  through  the  tunnel  under 
the  railroad  station.  Just  five  weeks  ago  —  on  a 
Saturday  evening  in  October,  wet  and  cold  as  the 
present  one, —  coming  from  the  other  side  of  the 
Thames  he  had  passed  through  it,  and,  agitated  by 
the  sad  memories  of  former  experiences,  fled  from  it 
the  last  time.  To-day  he  had  no  time  for  memories. 

He  hurried  on.  When  he  stood  in  Northumber- 
land Avenue,  that  street  of  palaces,  he  saw  that  ever 
fresh  enforcements  were  sent  to  the  Square  from 
Scotland  Yard,  the  headquarters  of  the  police.  He 
took  the  same  road. 

Everything  in  the  Square  presented  a  changed 
aspect :  the  Nelson  Column  rose  like  the  giant  fore- 
finger of  a  giant  hand  threateningly  into  the  dark- 
ness ;  on  the  right  lay  the  enormous  rotunda  of  the 
Grand  Hotel  with  its  illuminated  windows,  behind 
which  the  curiosity-seekers  had  not  yet  disappeared; 
silent  was  the  inner  surface  of  the  place,  still  occu- 
pied by  the  police;  and  in  the  streets  round  about 
still  raged  the  struggle,  which  with  the  falling 
darkness  seemed  to  grow  more  intense  the  nearer  it 
approached  its  end.  .  .  . 

The  countless  lights  of  the  lanterns  flashed  and 
illumined  with  their  trembling  rays  the  dark  masses 
who  surged  wildly  past  them  in  feverish  haste. 

The  Life  Guards  were  still  riding  up  and  down  the 
streets  in  troops.  Flooded  by  the  light,  their  uni- 
forms, their  armor,  their  white  pantaloons  and  red 
coats,  glittered  in  the  darkness. 

The  attacks  of  the  police,  especially  the  mounted 
police,  had  become  more  and  more  insolent,  brutal, 
and  unjustifiable.  Riding  into  the  densest  crowds 
at  full  speed,  they  trampled  upon  all  who  could  not 
escape  quickly  enough,  using  their  clubs  against 
the  falling  and  those  lying  on  the  ground,  indiffer- 


272  The  Anarchists. 

ent  where  they  struck,  on  the  arms,  the  shoulders,  or 
the  heads  of  the  defenceless.  In  an  instant  the 
places  where  just  now  not  a  stone  could  have  fallen 
on  the  ground,  were  strewn  with  rags  and  tatters, 
crushed  hats,  broken  canes. 

Notwithstanding  the  exhaustion  of  both  parties 
was  unmistakable,  all  seemed  doubly  embittered. 
Now  that  nothing  could  be  clearly  distinguished,  the 
cries  sounded  more  beastly  than  before. 

Whichever  way  he  turned,  Auban  saw  scenes  that 
made  his  blood  boil. 

He  stood,  unable  to  move,  in  a  crowd  petrified  by 
fear,  at  the  very  front.  An  old  man  sought  refuge 
with  him.  His  white  hair  was  stained  with  blood. 
One  of  the  riders  pursued  him,  again  and  again  beat- 
ing him  with  his  club.  Auban  rushed  forward, 
but  he  could  not  help,  for  he  was  carried  along  by 
those  following  him  with  such  violence  that  he  him- 
self felt  as  if  he  were  falling ;  the  police  had  come 
riding  up  on  the  other  side  and  put  everything  into 
commotion.  .  .  . 

At  the  entrance  of  Charing  Cross  he  could  at  last 
get  a  firm  footing  once  more.  The  riders  turned 
round  and  madly  galloped  back.  Auban  mounted 
some  steps. 

"  London  has  not  witnessed  such  scenes  since  the 
days  of  the  Chartists !  "  exclaimed  an  elderly  gentle- 
man beside  him. 

"The  Prince  of  Wales  made  the  bloodhounds 
drunk  with  brandy,  so  that  they  would  kill  us ! " 
screamed  a  woman. 

And  it  really  seemed  to  be  so.  But  not  only  the 
police  were  drunk,  but  also  the  people,  drunk  with 
rage  and  hate. 


At  the  entrance  of  the  same  street  where  Auban 
stood,  not  far  from  the  Grand  Hotel,  a  new  crowd 
was  gathering,  clearly  determined  to  offer  resistance 


Trafalgar  Square.  273 

and  keeping  close  together  in  obedience  to  the  instinct 
of  a  common  interest.  A  new  division  of  the  police, 
on  foot,  came  moving  on  apace.  A  mad  hand-to- 
hand  fight  followed.  Stones  flew  through  the  air, 
window-panes  crashed,  the  wrestling  of  the  combat- 
ants was  heard  and  the  dull  thud  of  the  canes, 
screams,  and  low  mutterings. 

The  police  were  on  the  point  of  retreating.  But 
already  the  mounted  ranks  arrived  at  full  speed,  and 
the  struggle  was  decided.  The  fleeing  crowd  was 
driven  far  into  Charing  Cross.  Again  Auban  was 
irresistibly  carried  away. 

The  sparks  which  the  galloping  horses  struck  on 
the  pavement  glittered  in  the  darkness.  .  .  . 

Thus  the  noise  and  the  conflicts  would  continue  to 
rage  for  another  hour,  at  most  two,  and  then  subside ; 
and  then  the  battle,  fought  out  along  the  whole  line 
in  favor  of  authority,  would  be  brought  to  an  end, 
and  the  right  of  free  speech  on  Trafalgar  Square  lost 
to  the  people  forever,  for  a  long  time.  .  .  . 

Before  Auban  left  the  Square,  he  once  more,  with 
a  long  look,  fixed  in  his  mind  the  picture  of  this 
spectacle,  which  he  would  never  forget.  Once  more 
his  ears  and  his  eyes,  both  tired,  drank  in  the  dark 
expanse  of  the  place,  the  black  sea  of  humanity,  the 
rush  and  roar  of  its  tides,  the  dazzling  lights,  the 
thousand  tones  of  passion  consolidated  into  one ;  and 
no  longer  ridiculous,  but  almost  terrible  was  the  howl 
which  seemed  to  come  from  a  single  throat. 


Auban  fled.  He  longed  for  rest.  He  longed  for 
a  struggle,  different  from  this  one  in  which  he  had 
participated  in  its  early  days  as  passionately  as  any 
one,  for  a  struggle  about  whose  success  there  was  no 
doubt,  because  it  would  have  to  be  relentless,  in 
which  other  forces  were  to  be  tested  than  those  which 
had  to-day  wrestled  together  in  play,  as  if  to  make 
each  other's  acquaintance. 


274  The  Anarchists. 

As  he  entered  the  carriage  which  was  to  take  him 
to  his  quiet  room,  he  heard  the  shrill  voices  of  the 
newsboys  offering  for  sale  the  evening  papers,  which 
contained  descriptions  of  what  he  had  seen  in  the 
afternoon. 


CHAPTER  X. 

ANARCHY. 

WEEKS  passed. 

The  "bloody  Sunday"  on  Trafalgar  Square  no 
longer  excited  people  to  passionate  discussions.  On 
the  following  Sunday,  indeed,  a  company  of  patriotic 
volunteers  had  come  ,to  offer  their  support  to  the 
police,  but  after  they  had  been  exposed  a  few  hours 
in  the  Square  to  the  scorn  and  ridicule  of  the  curious 
crowd,  who  made  no  attempt  at  reconquering  a  lost 
right,  they  had  to  return  home,  drenched  by  the  rain, 
and  without  having  swung  their  newly  turned  clubs. 

After  the  grand  spectacle,  the  comedy  of  volun- 
tary self-abasement ;  after  the  "  bloody  Sunday  "  the 
"laughing-stocks"!  .  .  . 

The  Square  was  and  remained  empty. 


The  question  of  the  "  unemployed  "  was  of  course 
not  solved,  but  it  had  been  pushed  into  the  back- 
ground, and  no  longer  cried  for  an  answer  in  the 
shrill  tones  of  hunger. 


In  Chicago  the  corpses  of  the  murdered  men  had 
been  followed  to  their  graves  by  an  unparalleled 
outpouring  of  the  population.  It  looked  like  a  wish 
to  atone  for  a  wrong. 


The  time  of  great  events  had  passed.     Everything 
had  taken  again  its  usual  course. 

275 


276  The  Anarchists. 

The  days  had  grown  more  chilly  and  damp  as  the 
month  approached  its  end. 

Auban  had  not  again  seen  Trupp,  nor  any  of  his 
other  friends.  Only  Dr.  Hurt  had  occasionally 
called  on  him,  to  "warm  his  feet"  and  smoke  his 
pipe.  They  approached  each  other  spiritually  more 
and  more  closely,  and  understood  each  other  better 
and  better. 

The  Sunday  afternoon  gatherings  seemed  not  only 
interrupted,  but  to  have  been  suspended  altogether. 
Nor  did  Auban  think  of  reviving  them.  He  was 
now  convinced  of  their  uselessness. 

The  clubs,  too,  he  had  not  again  attended  since 
the  evening  of  his  talk  with  Trupp.  And  the  great- 
est change  in  his  life  —  he  had  also  given  up  his 
walks  through  the  districts  of  hunger. 

He  had  much  to  do.  He  began  now  with  the 
work  of  his  life,  compared  with  which  all  that  he 
had  previously  done  was  only  preparation. 

For  himself  he  had  at  this  time  won  a  little  vic- 
tory. 

The  management  of  the  French  compilation,  to 
assist  in  which  he  had  been  called  to  London  three 
years  ago,  had  gradually  passed  into  his  hands. 
Thanks  to  his  conscientiousness,  circumspection, 
and  independence,  the  enterprise,  which  was  now 
approaching  its  completion,  had  been  attended  by 
brilliant  success.  Although  he  had  become  indis- 
pensable to  the  publishing  firm,  one  of  the  greatest 
in  England,  they  had  failed  to  adequately  reward  his 
services  and  but  slightly  raised  his  salary. 

He  had  waited  long  for  the  voluntary  fulfilment  of 
that  duty.  He  waited  until  he  held  all  the  trumps 
in  his  hands.  Then  he  turned  them  up  one  day, 
and  handed  in  his  resignation,  to  take  effect  by  the 
end  of  the  year. 

A  long  interview  followed  with  the  two  members 
of  the  firm.  At  the  outbreak  of  their  moral  indigna- 
tion at  the  breach  of  the  contract  which  had  not  been 


Anarchy.  277 

entered  into  by  Auban,  either  in  writing  or  by  any 
word  of  his,  but  by  them,  as  they  claimed,  only  in 
"good  faith,"  Auban  had  begged  of  them  to  put  all 
sentimentality  aside  in  a  business  transaction.  Then 
he  demonstrated  to  them  by  the  use  of  figures  that 
the  only  service  they  had  rendered  in  the  publica- 
tion of  the  work  consisted  in  furnishing  the  capital, 
but  that  that  service  had  been  so  profitable  as  to  give 
them  four-fifths  of  the  product  of  his  labor. 

Then,  when  he  was  asked  to  remain  a  quarter  of  a 
year  longer,  till  the  preliminary  completion  of  the 
work,  he  made  his  demands:  first,  his  monthly 
salary  to  be  increased  threefold. 

"  Never  had  they  paid  any  of  their  employees  such 
a  salary  —  " 

"Never,  surely,  had  any  of  their  employees  ren- 
dered them  such  services  — 

Further, — and  that  was  Auban 's  principal  move 
by  which  he  hoped  in  a  degree  at  least  to  secure  his 
future, —  a  share  of  the  profit  of  each  edition  of  the 
work. 

"Was  ever  such  a  demand  made?" 

"That  was  immaterial  to  him.  It  was  in  their 
power  to  accept  or  reject  it." 

They  did  the  former. 

Finally,  Auban 's  third  demand:  a  compensation, 
in  proportion  to  the  success  of  his  labor,  for  services 
hitherto  performed,  payable  at  once. 

"That  looks  damnably  like  blackmail." 

"They  might  call  it  what  they  pleased.  He  had 
learned  of  them.  Were  they  surprised?  Did  they 
not  also  force  down  the  wages  of  their  workingmen 
as  far  as  possible?  He  would  resist,  and  in  his  turn 
force  them  —  " 

When  he  had  gone,  the  partners  gnashed  their 
teeth.  But  as  shrewd  business  men  they  tacitly 
admitted  that  they  had  never  respected  Auban  more 
than  at  that  moment.  .  .  . 

Auban  submitted  the  contract,  which  both  parties 


278  The  Anarchists. 

had  drawn  up,  to  one  of  the  best  lawyers,  for  examin- 
ation and  approval,  before  he  signed  it  and  bound 
himself  for  three  months. 

Then  he  was  free  for  some  time ;  and  never  had  he 
felt  so  clearly  how  necessary  pecuniary  independence 
was  for  what  he  now  wished  to  do.  .  .  . 

A  quarter  of  a  year,  and  he  was  in  a  position  to 
return  to  Paris.  To  Paris!  His  heart  beat  faster 
at  the  thought. 

He  loved  London  and  admired  it,  that  wonderful, 
immense  London,  and  he  loved  Paris.  But  he  loved 
it  differently.  .  .  . 

London  began  to  weigh  heavily  on  him  with  its 
eternally  gray  sky,  its  pale  fog,  its  gloomy  darkness. 

A  sun  rose.  And  that  sun  was  Paris.  Soon  he 
would  again  bask  in  its  rays,  which  were  so  warm, 
so  animating,  so  beautiful!  .  .  . 


The  piles  of  papers  and  pamphlets  on  Chicago  had 
disappeared  from  Auban's  writing-desk,  and  it  was 
covered  by  new  works,  which  filled  his  few  free 
hours. 

He  was  clear  concerning  what  he  wanted. 

He  stood  alone :  none  of  his  numerous  friends  had 
gone  with  him  in  the  latter  years;  none  had  been 
able  to  draw  the  last  conclusions. 

So  he  had  to  leave  them  behind,  —  he  who  had 
restlessly  advanced  towards  liberty. 

But  he  had  formed  new  connections,  and  ever  and 
anon  he  cast  his  glances  towards  America,  where  a 
small  but  steadily  and  surely  increasing  company  of 
excellent  men  had  already  been  engaged  for  years  in 
the  task  which  in  the  Old  World  had  not  yet  been 
begun. 

It  was  becoming  urgent  to  begin  it  here  too. 


Two  circumstances  aggravated  the  difficulties  in 


Anarchy.  279 

the  way  of  the  spread  of  the  idea  of  Anarchy  in 
Europe :  — 

Either  people  regarded  every  Anarchist  as  a  dyna- 
miter; or,  if  they  had  cast  a  glance  at  the  philos- 
ophy of  the  new  party,  as  a  Communist. 

While  in  America  already  some  rays  of  light  had 
begun  to  enter  the  dull  eyes  of  prejudice  and  bias, 
all  were  still  veiled  in  Europe. 

It  was  necessary,  above  all,  to  newly  examine, 
understand,  and  explain  the  misapprehended  mean- 
ing of  the  word. 

Those  who  accepted  everything  as  it  was  offered 
them,  and  who  saw  in  Anarchy  only  chaos,  and  in 
the  Anarchist  only  the  violent  revolutionist,  had  to 
be  taught  that  Anarchy  was,  on  the  contrary,  the 
goal  of  human  development,  and  designated  that 
condition  of  society  in  which  the  liberty  of  the  indi- 
vidual and  his  labor  constitutes  the  guarantee  alike 
of  his  welfare  and  that  of  mankind. 

And  those  who  rightly  did  not  believe  in  the  ideal 
of  liberty  in  fraternal  Communism,  had  to  be  shown 
that  Anarchy,  far  from  seeing  liberty  in  Communism 
and  sacrifice,  sought,  on  the  contrary,  to  realize  it  by 
the  removal  of  definite  forcible  obstructions  and  arti- 
ficial barriers.  Then  after  this  first  crude  and  un- 
grateful preliminary  work  had  been  accomplished, 
and  after  the  perception  had  gained  ground,  even  if 
at  first  only  among  the  few,  that  Anarchy  is  not  a 
heaven  on  earth  and  that  men  need  only  to  under- 
stand their  true  nature  and  its  needs,  and  not  to 
"fundamentally  change  it,"  in  order  to  make  liberty 
possible,  the  next  task  would  consist  in  designating 
the  institution  of  the  State  as  the  greatest  and  only 
obstacle  in  the  path  of  human  civilization. 

It  was  necessary  to  show :  that  the  State  is  privi- 
leged force,  and  that  it  is  force  which  supports  it; 
that  it  is  the  State  which  changes  the  harmony  of 
nature  into  the  confusion  of  force;  that  it  is  its 
crimes  which  create  the  crimes ;  that  it  grants  unnat- 


280  The  Anarchists. 

ural  privileges  here,  while  it  denies  natural  rights 
there ;  that  it  paralyzes  the  competitive  evolution  of 
forces  in  all  domains,  stifles  trade,  and  thus  under- 
mines the  welfare  of  the  whole  people ;  that  it  repre- 
sents mediocrity  in  all  things,  and  that  everything 
which  it  undertakes  to  do  could  be  done  far  better, 
more  satisfactorily,  and  more  profitably  without  it  if 
left  to  the  free  competition  of  private  men;  that  a 
nation  is  the  richer  and  happier  the  less  it  is  gov- 
erned; that  far  from  constituting  the  expression  of 
the  will  of  the  whole  people,  the  State  is  rather  only 
the  will  of  those  who  stand  at  its  head,  and  that 
those  who  stand  at  the  head  do  indeed  always  look 
out  for  themselves  and  "their  own,"  but  never  for 
those  who  are  foolish  enough  to  entrust  them  with 
their  cares ;  that  the  State  can  only  give  what  it  has 
first  taken,  because  it  is  unproductive,  and  that  it 
always  gives  back  less  than  it  received,  —  in  short, 
it  was  necessary  to  show  that,  taken  all  in  all,  it  is 
nothing  but  one  immense,  continued,  shameless  trick, 
by  means  of  which  the  few  live  at  the  expense  of  the 
many,  be  its  name  what  it  will.  .  .  . 

Then,  after  the  faith  in  the  infallible  idol  of  the 
State  had  thus  been  shaken  with  regard  to  some 
points,  and  the  spirit  of  self-reliance  correspondingly 
strengthened,  the  laws  dominating  social  economy 
had  to  be  studied.  The  truth  had  to  be  established 
that  the  interests  of  men  are  not  hostile  to  each  other, 
but  harmonious,  if  only  granted  free  rein  for  their 
development. 

The  liberty  of  labor  —  realized  by  the  fall  of  the 
State,  which  can  no  longer  monopolize  money,  limit 
credit,  withhold  capital,  obstruct  the  circulation  of 
values,  in  a  word,  no  longer  control  the  affairs  of 
the  individual, —  when  this  had  become  a  fact,  the 
sun  of  Anarchy  had  risen. 

Its  blessings,  —  they  would  be  felt  like  warmth 
after  the  long  night  of  cold  and  want.  .  .  . 

But  nothing  ought  to  be  promised.     Only  those 


Anarchy.  281 

who  did  not  know  what  they  wanted  made  promises. 
It  was  necessary  to  convince,  not  to  persuade. 

That  required  different  talents  from  those  of  the 
flowing  tongue  which  persuades  the  masses  to  act 
against  their  will  instead  of  leaving  the  choice  of  his 
decisions  to  the  individual  and  trusting  to  his  reason. 

All  knowledge  would  have  to  be  drawn  upon  in 
order  to  demonstrate  the  theory  of  the  newly  awak- 
ening creed:  history,  in  order  to  avoid  the  mistakes 
of  the  past  in  the  future;  psychology,  in  order  to 
understand  how  the  soul  is  subject  to  the  conditions 
prescribed  by  the  body;  philosophy,  in  order  to  show 
how  all  thought  proceeds  only  from  the  individual, 
to  whom  it  must  return.  .  .  . 

After  everything  had  thus  been  done,  in  order  to 
demonstrate  the  liberty  of  the  individual  as  the  cul- 
mination of  human  development,  one  task  remained. 

Not  only  had  the  ends  and  aims  to  be  shown :  the 
best  and  surest  ways  had  also  to  be  pointed  out  along 
which  they  were  to  be  achieved.  Regarding  author- 
ity as  the  greatest  enemy,  it  was  necessary  to  destroy 
authority.  In  what  way? 

This  also  was  found.  Superior  as  the  State  was 
in  all  the  appliances  of  power  and  armed  to  the  teeth, 
there  could  be  no  idea  of  challenging  it  to  a  combat. 
It  would  have  been  decided  before  it  had  yet  been 
begun.  No ;  that  monster  which  feeds  and  lives  on 
our  blood  had  to  be  starved  by  denying  it  the  tribute 
which  it  claimed  as  a  matter  of  course.  It  had  to  die 
of  exhaustion,  starve, — slowly,  indeed,  to  be  sure, 
but  surely.  It  still  had  the  power  and  the  prestige 
to  claim  its  booty,  or  to  destroy  those  who  should 
resist.  But  some  day  it  would  encounter  a  number 
of  men,  cool-headed,  calm,  intrepid  men,  who  with 
folded  arms  would  beat  back  its  attack  with  the 
question :  What  do  you  want  of  us  ?  We  want  noth- 
ing of  you.  We  deny  you  all  obedience.  Let  those 
support  you  who  need  you.  But  leave  us  in  peace! 

On  that  day  liberty  would  win  its  first  victory, 


282  The  Anarchists. 

a  bloodless  victory,  whose  glory  would  travel  round 
the  earth  with  the  velocity  of  the  storm  and  every- 
where call  out  the  voice  of  reason  in  response. 

What  else  were  the  strikes  before  which  the 
exploiters  trembled  than  passive  resistance?  Was 
it  not  possible  for  the  workingmen  to  gain  victories 
by  means  of  them?  Victories  for  which  the}r  would 
have  to  wait  in  vain  if  they  continued  to  trust  in  the 
perfidious  game  of  political  jugglers ! 

Hitherto,  in  the  history  of  the  century  resorted  to 
only  in  individual  cases  here  and  there,  and  only 
temporarily  for  the  purpose  of  securing  certain  politi- 
cal demands,  passive  resistance,  methodically  applied 
as  against  the  government  —  principally  in  the  form 
of  resistance  to  taxation  —  would  some  day  constitute 
the  presented  bayonet  against  which  the  State  would 
bleed  to  death. 

But  until  then? 

Until  then  it  was  necessary  to  watch  and  to  wait. 

There  was  no  other  way  in  which  finally  to  reach 
the  goal,  but  that  of  calm,  unwearied,  sure  enlight- 
enment, and  that  of  individual  example,  which 
would  some  day  work  wonders. 


Thus  in  its  entire  outline  lay  before  Auban  the 
work  to  which  he  decided  to  dedicate  his  life.  He 
did  not  overestimate  his  strength.  But  he  trusted 
in  it.  For  it  had  led  him  through  the  errors  of  his 
youth.  Consequently  it  could  be  no  common  strength. 

He  was  still  alone.  Soon  he  would  have  friends 
and  comrades.  Already  an  individualistic  Anar- 
chistic movement  was  noticeable  among  the  Com- 
munists of  Paris,  championing  private  property. 

The  first  numbers  of  a  new  periodical  —  founded 
evidently  with  slender  means  —  had  just  come  to  him, 
which  gave  brilliant  proof  of  the  intelligence  pre- 
vailing in  certain  labor  circles  of  his  native  country. 
The  "  Autonomie  individuelle  "  had  extricated  itself 


Anarchy.  283 

from  Communism,  and  was  now  attacked  as  much 
by  it  as  formerly  by  the  Social  Democrats.  Auban 
became  absorbed  in  the  reading  of  the  few  papers 
which  were  imbued  with  a  spirit  of  liberty  that 
enchanted  him.  .  .  . 

A  knock  at  the  door  interrupted  him. 

A  letter  was  handed  to  him.  It  asked  of  him  the 
favor  of  a  rendez-vous  that  very  evening,  and  bore  no 
signature.  At  first  Auban  wanted  to  throw  it  aside. 
But  after  reading  it  a  second  time  his  face  assumed 
a  more  thoughtful  expression.  There  must  have 
been  something  in  the  style  of  the  letter  that  changed 
his  decision,  for  he  looked  at  his  watch  and  studied 
the  large  map  of  London  that  hung  on  the  wall. 


By  the  underground  railroad  he  rode  over  Black- 
friars  from  King's  Cross  to  London  Bridge.  He  had 
to  change  cars,  and  was  delayed  in  consequence. 
Nevertheless,  he  arrived  at  the  street  and  the  ap- 
pointed house  before  the  time  set.  When  he  knocked 
at  the  closed  door,  it  was  at  once  opened. 

Auban  did  not  need  to  mention  the  name  which 
had  been  told  him.  It  died  on  his  lips  in  an  invol- 
untary exclamation  of  recognition  and  fright  when 
he  saw  the  man  who  opened  the  door  for  him.  Before 
him  stood  a  man  who  had  been  one  of  the  most  feared 
and  celebrated  personalities  in  the  revolutionary 
movement  of  Europe,  but  whose  name  was  now  men- 
tioned by  most  people  only  with  hate  and  contempt. 
Auban  would  have  sooner  expected  to  see  anybody 
else  than  this  man  who  received  him  silently  and  now 
led  him  silently  up  stairs  into  a  small,  low  room. 

There,  by  the  only  window,  they  stood  opposite 
each  other,  and  Auban 's  recognition  yielded  to  a 
feeling  of  deepest  agitation  when  he  saw  what  the 
few  years  during  which  he  had  not  seen  him  had 
made  of  his  former  acquaintance.  Then  his  figure 
had  been  erect  and  proud ;  now  he  stood  before  him 


284  The  Anarchists. 

as  if  staggering  under  the  burden  of  a  terrible  fate. 
Not  yet  thirty-five,  his  hair  was  as  gray  as  that  of  a 
man  of  fifty ;  once  his  smile  had  been  so  confident 
and  compelling  that  no  one  could  resist  it ;  to-day  it 
was  sad  and  painful  when  he  saw  how  little  Auban 
could  conceal  his  fright  and  his  agitation  in  conse- 
quence of  his  changed  looks. 

Then,  as  if  he  feared  the  walls  might  hear  him, 
Auban  called  him  by  his  real  name,  that  name  once 
so  popular,  now  almost  forgotten. 

"  Yes,  it  is  I,"  said  the  other,  and  the  sad  smile  did 
not  disappear  from  his  lips.  "  You  would  not  have 
known  me  again,  Auban  ?  " 

Auban  shook  off  his  excitement  with  an  effort. 

"  Where  have  you  come  from  ?  Do  you  not 
know  —  " 

"  Yes,  I  know ;  they  are  everywhere  at  my  heels, 
even  here  in  England.  In  France  they  would  extra- 
dite me,  and  in  Germany  bury  me  for  life,  if  they 
had  me.  Here  also  I  am  not  safe.  But  I  had  to 
come  here  once  more  before  I  disappear  forever.  You 
know  why  —  " 

Certainly,  Auban  knew.  On  this  man  lay  the  ter- 
rible suspicion  of  having  betrayed  a  comrade.  How 
much,  how  little  truth  there  was  in  that  suspicion, 
Auban  could  not  determine.  It  had  first  been  uttered 
by  Social  Democrats.  But  so  many  wilful  lies  concern- 
ing the  Communists  had  originated  from  that  source, 
that  this  one,  too,  might  have  been  made  of  whole 
cloth.  Then  it  had  been  repeated  by  a  hostile  faction 
in  his  own  camp.  The  accused  had  now  replied. 
But  whether  he  would  not  or  could  not :  in  short,  in 
spite  of  many  words,  the  matter  was  never  fully 
cleared  up.  But  it  was  altogether  impossible  to  do 
it  in  public;  too  many  things  had  to  be  suppressed 
lest  the  enemy  should  hear  them,  too  many  names 
had  to  remain  unmentioned,  too  many  relations  un- 
touched which  ought  to  have  been  thoroughly  dis- 
cussed, to  allow  the  accused  the  hope  of  ever  again 
rehabilitating  himself  in  the  eyes  of  all. 


Anarchy.  285 

Such  was  the  curse  of  the  slavery  with  which  a 
false  policy  bound  one  to  the  other,  so  that  no  one 
could  turn  and  move  as  he  liked. 

Although  he  was  attacked  on  all  sides,  he  could 
still  have  continued  his  work  among  the  old  circle 
of  comrades,  if  he  had  not  himself  become  wavering. 
Then  one  day  he  burned  all  the  bridges  behind  him 
and  disappeared.  His  name  was  forgotten  ;  what  he 
had  done  was  forgotten,  after  his  great  influence, 
which  had  been  fascinating  where  it  had  made  itself 
felt,  had  disappeared  with  his  person. 

Auban  knew  it,  and  said,  therefore :  — 

"  Your  trip  was  useless  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  was  the  reply,  and  his  voice  was  as  gloomy 
as  his  eyes,  "  it  was  useless." 

Completely  broken  down,  he  dropped  his  head  as 
he  continued  in  a  lower  voice,  as  if  he  were  ashamed 
alike  of  his  return  and  his  cowardice  :  — 

"  I  could  not  stand  it  any  longer.  I  was  alone 
two  years.  Then  I  decided  to  return  and  make  a 
last  attempt  to  justify  myself.  They  do  not  believe 
me.  No  one  believes  me.  .  .  ." 

"  Then  believe  in  yourself ! "  said  Auban,  firmly. 

"To-day  I  thought  of  you.  They  spoke  to  me  of 
you.  They  criticised  you  for  going  your  own  ways. 
And,  indeed,  you  are  the  only  one  who  has  preserved 
his  freedom  in  the  confusion.  I  thank  you  for  hav- 
ing come." 

He  looked  exhausted,  as  if  those  few  words  had 
tired  him.  Three  years  ago  he  had  been  a  brilliant 
speaker,  who  could  talk  for  three  hours  without 
showing  a  sign  of  fatigue. 

Auban  was  deeply  agitated.  He  would  gladly 
have  told  him  that  he  believed  him.  But  how  could 
he  without  becoming  dishonest  ?  The  whole  affair 
had  remained  almost  unknown  to  him,  as  much  as 
he  had  heard  of  it.  The  other  seemed  to  feel  it. 

"  I  should  have  to  tell  you  the  whole  story  to 
enable  you  to  pass  a  judgment.  But  that  would 


286  The  Anarchists. 

require  hours,  and  perhaps  it  would  be  useless  never- 
theless. Only  so  much,  and  this  you  may  believe : 
I  made  a  mistake,  but  I  am  innocent  of  the  crime 
with  which  I  am  charged.  Besides,  I  neglected  to 
do  many  things  in  my  defence  that  I  ought  to  have 
done  immediately.  Now  it  is  too  late." 

He  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  Yes,  it  would  require  hours,  and  I  have  not  half 
an  hour  to  spare.  I  am  going  away  to-day." 

"  Where  ?  "  asked  Auban. 

"First,  up  the  Thames  with  a  boat.  And  then," 
—  sadly  smiling,  he  made  a  motion  with  his  hand  in 
space,  —  "  and  then  farther  —  anywhere  —  " 

He  took  a  little  valise  which  lay  packed  beside 
him. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  do  here ;  let  us  go,  Auban. 
Accompany  me  to  the  bridge,  if  it  is  not  out  of  your 
way." 

They  left  the  room  and  the  house  without  any 
one  looking  after  them.  They  walked  silently  as 
far  as  London  Bridge. 

But  as  they  were  crossing  the  bridge,  the  pent-up 
anger  of  the  outcast  broke  forth. 

"  I  gave  all  I  had  to  the  cause :  the  whole  of  my 
youth  and  half  my  life.  After  taking  everything 
from  me,  it  left  me  nothing,  not  even  the  belief  in 
itself." 

"  Half  your  life  still  remains  in  which  to  win  back 
in  its  stead  the  belief  in  yourself,  the  only  belief  that 
has  no  disappointments." 

But  the  other  shook  his  head. 

"  Look  at  me  ;  I  am  no  longer  what  I  was.  I  have 
defied  all  persecutions,  hunger,  hate,  imprisonment, 
death ;  but  to  be  driven  away  like  a  mad  dog  by 
those  whom  I  loved  more  than  myself,  is  more  than  I 
can  endure.  Ah,  I  am  so  weary  !  —  so  weary !  —  so 
weary!-  .  .  ." 

He  entered  one  of  the  resting-places  of  the  bridge, 
and  dropped  on  a  bench,  while  the  human  stream 


Anarchy.  287 

rushed  on.  Auban  sat  down  beside  him.  The  tone 
in  which  the  unfortunate  man  repeated  the  last  words 
agitated  him  anew  to  his  very  depths.  And  while 
the  grandiose  life  behind  them  was  sweeping  over  the 
bridge,  he  talked  to  him,  in  order  to  give  him  time  to 
collect  himself,  of  his  own  sad  experiences  and  les- 
sons, and  how  his  strength  was  nevertheless  unshaken 
and  his  courage  undaunted  since  he  had  found  himself 
again  and  —  standing  on  his  own  feet  —  doing  and 
letting  as  he  pleased  — not  dependent  on  any  party, 
any  clique,  any  school  —  no  longer  allowed  any  one 
to  interfere  with  his  own  life  — 

But  the  other  sat  indifferent.  He  shook  his  head 
and  looked  before  him. 

Suddenly  he  sprang  up,  seized  his  baggage,  pointed 
to  the  chaos  of  ships,  and  muttered  a  few  incompre- 
hensible words. 

Then,  before  Auban  could  reply  to  him,  he  vehe- 
mently embraced  him  and  hurried  away,  making  a  sign 
with  his  hand  that  he  did  not  wish  to  be  accompanied 
any  further.  .  .  . 

Auban  looked  after  him  a  long  time. 

Sacrifice  upon  sacrifice,  and  all  in  vain,  he  thought. 
For  a  long  time  he  saw  before  him  the  aged  face 
and  the  gray  hair  of  the  persecuted  man,,  who  —  a 
restless  wanderer  — was  facing  a  strange  world,  with- 
out strength  and  without  courage  to  continue  a  life 
that  had  deceived  him. 


The  evening  began. 

The  sun  went  down. 

Two  immense  human  streams  surged  across  London 
Bridge ;  back  and  forth  rolled,  rattling  and  resound- 
ing, two  unbroken  lines  of  vehicles. 

The  black  waters  of  the  Thames  flowed  lazily. 

Auban  stood  against  the  railing  of  the  bridge, 
and,  facing  the  east,  contemplated  the  grand  picture 
which  presented  itself.  Everywhere,  on  both  sides 


288  The  Anarchists. 

of  the  stream,  towers,  pillars,  chimney-stacks,  church 
steeples  rose  above  the  sea  of  houses.  .  .  .  But  be- 
neath him  a  forest  of  masts,  poles,  sails.  .  .  .  On 
the  left  Billingsgate,  the  great,  famous  fish-market 
of  London.  .  .  .  Farther,  where  the  four  towers 
rise,  the  dark,  dismal  structure  of  the  Tower.  With 
a  reddish  glare  the  setting  sun,  the  pale,  weary  sun 
of  London,  lay  on  its  windows  a  few  minutes ;  then 
also  its  light  was  suddenly  extinguished,  and  a  gray 
twilight  drew  its  streaks  around  the  dark  masses  of 
the  warehouses,  the  giant  bodies  of  the  ships,  the 
pillars  of  the  bridge.  .  .  . 

By  the  clock  on  the  Adelaide  Buildings  it  was 
already  seven,  but  still  the  task  of  unloading  the 
great  ocean  steamer  at  Auban's  feet  was  not  yet 
completed.  Long  lines  of  strong  men  carried  boxes 
and  bales  over  wavering  wooden  bridges  to  the  shore. 
Their  foreheads,  heads,  and  necks  protected  against 
the  crushing  pressure  of  their  heavy  burdens  by 
strangely  shaped  cushions,  they  looked  like  oxen 
in  the  yoke  as  they  staggered  along  under  their 
weight.  .  .  . 

A  strange  feeling  crept  over  Auban.  Such  was 
London,  immense  London,  which  covers  seven  hun- 
dred miles  with  its  five  millions  of  human  beings  ; 
such  was  London,  where  a  man  was  born  every  fifth 
minute,  where  one  died  every  eighth.  .  .  .  Such 
was  London,  which  grew  and  grew,  and  already 
immeasurable,  seemed  to  aspire  to  the  infinite.  .  .  . 

Immense  city !  Sphinx-like,  it  stretched  on  both 
sides  of  the  river,  and  the  clouds  of  smoke,  vapor, 
noise  it  belched  forth,  lay  like  veils  over  its  panting 
body.  .  .  . 

Lights  after  lights  began  to  flash  and  mingled  the 
warmth  of  their  glow  with  the  dampness  of  the  fog. 
Their  reddish  reflections  trembled  through  the  twi- 
light. 

London  Bridge  thundered  and  resounded  under 
the  burdens  it  bore. 


Anarchy.  289 

Thus  day  after  day,  week  after  week,  year  after 
year,  raged  that  mighty  life  which  never  grew  tired. 
The  beatings  of  its  heart  grew  ever  more  feverish, 
the  deeds  of  its  arms  ever  mightier,  the  plans  of  its 
brain  ever  bolder. 

When  would  it  reach  the  summit  of  its  aspira- 
tions ?  When  would  it  rest  ? 

Was  it  immortal  ? 

Or  was  it  also  threatened  by  destruction  ? 

And  again  Auban  saw  them  approaching,  the 
clouds  of  ruin  which  would  send  the  lightning  that 
would  ignite  this  mass  of  inflammable  material. 

London,  even  you  are  not  immortal.  .  .  .  You  are 
great.  But  time  is  greater.  .  .  . 

It  grew  darker  and  darker. 

Then  he  turned  towards  the  north,  and  as  he  was 
walking  along  with  his  heavy,  long  strides,  supported 
by  his  cane,  many  a  passer-by  looked  after  the  tall, 
thin,  proud  form,  round  which  swung  his  loose  cloak. 


And  as  Auban  crossed  street  after  street,  and  came 
nearer  and  nearer  to  his  dwelling,  he  had  already 
overcome  the  agitation  of  the  last  hours,  and  once 
more  the  wings  of  his  thoughts  circled  restlessly 
around  the  longed-for  light  of  liberty. 

What  was  still  resting  in  the  womb  of  time  as  a 
germ  but  just  fructified  —  how  would  it  develop,  and 
what  shape  would  it  take  ? 

Of  one  thing  he  was  certain. 

Without  pain  it  was  to  take  place,  this  birth  of  a 
new  world,  if  it  was  to  live. 

The  social  question  was  an  economic  question. 

So,  and  in  no  other  way,  it  could  be  solved: 

With  the  decline  of  State  authority  the  individual 
becomes  more  and  more  self-reliant.  Escaping  from 
the  leading-strings  of  paternalism,  he  acquires  the 
independence  of  his  own  wishes  and  deeds.  Claim- 
ing the  right  of  self-determination  without  restriction, 


290  The  Anarchists. 

he  aims  first  at  making  null  and  void  all  past  privi- 
leges. Nothing  was  to  be  left  of  them  but  an  enor- 
mous heap  of  mouldering  paper.  Land  left  vacant 
and  no  longer  recognized  as  the  property  of  those 
who  do  not  live  on  it,  is  used  by  subsequent  occu- 
pants. Hitherto  uncultivated,  it  now  bears  fruit  and 
grain  and  nourishes  abundantly  a  free  people.  Capi- 
tal, incapable  of  any  longer  fattening  on  the  sweat 
of  others'  labor,  is  compelled  to  consume  itself: 
although  it  still  supports  the  father  and  the  son  with- 
out obliging  them  to  turn  a  hand,  the  grandson  is 
already  confronted  with  the  alternative  of  starving 
or  disgracing  the  "  glory  of  his  fathers  "  by  working. 
For  the  disappearance  of  alL  privileges  entails  on  the 
individual  the  duty  of  responsibility.  Will  it  be  a 
heavier  burden  for  him  than  the  thousand  duties 
towards  others  with  which  hitherto  the  State  saddled 
its  citizens,  the  Church  its  members,  morality  the 
righteous  ? 

There  was  but  one  solution  of  the  social  question, 
but  one :  no  longer  to  keep  one's  self  in  mutual  de- 
pendence, to  open  for  one's  self  and  thereby  for 
others  the  way  to  independence  ;  no  longer  to  make 
the  ridiculous  claim  of  the  strong,  "  Become  weak !  " 
no,  to  exhort  the  weak  at  last,  "  Become  strong ! " 
no  longer  to  trust  in  the  help  "  from  above,"  but  at 
last  to  rely  on  one's  own  exertions. 

The  nineteenth  century  has  deposed  "  our  Father 
in  Heaven."  It  no  longer  believes  in  a  divine  power 
to  which  it  is  subject. 

But  only  the  children  of  the  twentieth  century 
would  be  the  real  atheists :  doubters  of  divine  omnip- 
otence, they  had  to  begin  to  test  the  justification  of 
all  human  authority  by  the  relentless  criticism  of 
their  reason. 

They  would  be  imbued  with  the  consciousness  of 
their  own  dignity.  Instead  of  seeking  their  pride  as 
hitherto  in  subjection,  humility,  devotion,  they  would 
regard  command  as  presumption,  obedience  as  sacri- 


Anarchy.  291 

fice,  and  each  as  a  dishonor  which  the  free  man 
despises.  .  .  . 

The  race,  crippled  in  uniforms,  might  require  a 
long  time  to  regain  its  natural  growth  and  the  erect 
carriage  of  pride. 

Auban  was  no  dreamer.  By  raising  the  demands 
of  liberty,  he  did  not  ask  of  time  their  immediate 
realization.  The  great  changes  of  the  social  organs 
would  probably  require  centuries  before  they  would 
attain  to  the  normal  condition  of  equal  opportunities 
for  all. 

The  development  towards  liberty  would  last  the 
longer,  the  more  powerful  and  triumphant  the  great 
opposition  current  of  authority  would  become. 

Violence  would  everywhere  retard  the  peaceable 
cause  of  development.  It  was  inevitable.  Hate, 
blindness,  want  of  confidence,  were  too  intense  on 
both  sides  to  make  impossible  collisions  such  as 
would  make  the  earth  tremble  in  terror. 

The  nature  of  things  must  have  its  course. 

The  logic  of  events  neutralized  the  wish  for  the 
impossible. 

Ever  and  ever  the  follies  must  pay  their  tribute  to 
experience  before  it  will  rise  to  the  surface. 

Socialism  was  the  last  general  stupidity  of  man- 
kind. This  last  station  of  suffering  on  the  way  to 
liberty  had  to  be  passed. 

Not  until  then  coul<}  the  God  of  illusion  be  nailed 
to  the  cross. 

Not  until  all  faith  lay  strangled  on  the  ground  and 
no  longer  lent  wings  to  any  hope,  —  to  scale  the 
heavens,  —  not  until  then  had  the  time^come  for  the 
true  "  kingdom  on  earth  "  :  the  kingdom  of  happiness, 
of  joy  and  exuberant  life,  which  was  liberty.  .  .  . 

But  liberty  had  also  a  powerful  ally :  the  dissen- 
sions in  the  camp  of  its  enemies. 

Everywhere  divisions ;  everywhere  unrest ;  every- 
where fear  ;  and  everywhere  the  cry  for  more 
authority !  Authority,  authority  !  —  it  was  to  cure 


292  The  Anarchists. 

all  evils.  And  the  armies  sprang  from  the  earth, 
the  nations  were  armed  to  the  teeth,  and  dread  of 
the  bloody  future  frightened  sleep  from  the  eyes 
of  the  seeing. 

The  rulers  no  longer  knew  what  to  do.  Like  that 
general  of  antiquity,  they  ordered  the  sea  to  be  lashed 
which  flooded  the  deck  with  its  billows  and  threat- 
ened to  drown  all  on  board. 

Wars  in  whose  streams  of  blood  the  holders  of 
power  would  attempt  to  extinguish  the  flames  of 
popular  revolt  were  inevitable,  wars  such  as  the 
world  had  never  seen.  .  .  . 

Crime  and  injustice  had  been  piled  too  high,  and 
terrible  would  be  the  revenge ! 

Then,  after  the  chaos  of  the  revolutions  and  the 
slaughter  of  the  battles,  when  the  desolated  earth 
had  crumbled  together  from  exhaustion,  when  the 
bitterest  experience  had  destroyed  the  last  faith  in 
authority,  then,  perhaps,  would  be  understood  who 
they  were  and  what  they  wanted,  they,  the  lone 
ones,  who  in  the  confusion  round  about  them  trusted 
in  liberty,  calm  and  composed,  which  they  called  by 
the  name :  Anarchy !  .  .  . 

How  it  surged  and  roared,  that  London !  How 
its  pulses  beat  faster  and  faster  with  the  approach  of 
night !  What  signified  those  thousand-fold  voices  ? 

Farther  and  farther  had  Auban  gone,  till  he  reached 
his  dwelling. 

Now  he  was  again  in  the  secluded  stillness  of  his 
room,  which  he  had  left  only  a  few  hours  ago. 

The  fire  still  glowed  in  the  fireplace. 

But  before  he  again  took  up  his  work,  he  moved 
up  a  chair  and  sat  a  short  time,  his  hands  stretched 
towards  the  warmth,  and,  bent  forwards,  gazing  into 
the  glow. 

A  great,  almost  overpowering  joy,  such  as  he  had 
never  felt  before,  filled  him. 

The  walls  of  his  room,  the  fogs  of  London,  the 
darkness  of  the  evening,  —  everything  disappeared 
before  the  picture  which  he  saw:" 


Anarchy.  293 

A  long  night  has  passed. 

Slowly  the  sun  rises  above  the  sleeping  house-tops 
and  the  resting  fields. 

A  solitary  wanderer  passes  through  the  expanse. 

The  dew  of  the  night  still  trembles  on  the  grasses 
at  the  edge  of  the  road.  In  the  woods  on  the  hill- 
sides the  first  voices  of  the  birds  are  heard.  Above 
the  summit  of  the  mountains  soars  the  first  eagle. 

The  wanderer  walks  alone.  But  he  does  not  feel 
lonely.  The  chaste  freshness  of  nature  communicates 
itself  to  him. 

He  feels :  it  is  the  morning  of  a  new  day. 

Then  he  meets  another  wanderer.  And  another. 
And  they  understand  each  other  by  their  looks  as 
they  pass  each  other. 

The  light  rises  and  rises. 

And  the  early  morning  walker  opens  wide  his 
arms  and  salutes  it  with  the  liberating  cry  of  joy.  .  .  . 


So  was  Auban. 

The  early  morning  walker  at  the  break  of  the  new 
day  was  he. 

After  a  long  night  of  error  and  illusion,  he  walked 
through  a  morning  of  light. 

The  sun  of  truth  had  risen  for  him,  and  rose 
higher  and  higher. 

Ages  had  to  pass  before  the  idea  of  Anarchy  could 
arise. 

All  the  forms  of  slavery  had  to  be  passed  through. 
Ever  seeking  liberty  only  to  find  the  same  despot- 
ism in  the  changed  forms,  so  had  the  people  stag- 
gered. 

Now  was  the  truth  found  to  condemn  all  forms 
which  were  force.  Authority  began  to  yield. 

The  wild  chase  was  approaching  its  end. 

But  still  it  was  necessary  to  battle,  to  battle,  to 
battle  —  not  to  grow  tired  and  never  to  despair !  — 

The  issue  was  not   one  of   transitory  aims.     The 


294  The  Anarchists. 

happiness  of  liberty  which  was  to  be  conquered  was 
imperishable. 


Like  the  wanderer  was  Auban. 

And  like  the  early  morning  walker  he  also  opened 
his  arms,  saluted  the  future  with  the  cry  of  joy,  and 
called  it  by  the  immortal  name :  Anarchy !  .  .  . 

Then  he  took  up  his  work. 

Upon  his  thin,  hard  features  lay  a  calm,  magnani- 
mous, confident  smile. 

It  was  the  smile  of  invincibility. 


APPENDIX. 


JOHN  HENKY   MACKAY.1 

Among  the  modern  poets  with  a  marked  personality, 
John  Henry  Mackay  undoubtedly  occupies  a  conspicuous 
place.  Surely  the  task  of  tracing  the  development  of 
this  poet-individuality  is  not  without  charm.  The  per- 
sonal life,  which  in  all  cases  reacts  powerfully  on  a 
man's  works,  can  here  indeed  hardly  be  touched  upon, 
and  I  can  consequently  offer  no  plastic,  but  only  a  reflex, 
picture. 

With  a  few  exceptions,  Mackay's  poems  so  far  have 
been  so  entirely  lyrical,  so  entirely  the  expression  of  an 
inner  mood,  and  so  little  addressed  to  the  public,  that 
they  can  be  understood  and  appreciated  only  in  their 
ensemble.  To  be  delighted  by  rare  beauty,  surprised  by 
original  and  saving  ideas,  one  must  allow  his  thought 
and  soul-life  to  absorb  him  seriously  and  without  preju- 
dice. This  is  especially  true  of  Mackay's  latest  and,  for 
the  general  reading  public,  most  incomprehensible  book, 
"  Das  starke  Jahr  "  (The  Strong  Year) .  The  following 
study  is  chiefly  meant  to  serve  as  an  introduction  to  the 
spirit  of  this  remarkable  collection  of  poems. 

John  Henry  Mackay  was  born  on  the  6th  of  February, 
1864,  at  Greenock,  in  Scotland.  After  the  death  of  his 
father,  his  mother,  a  Hamburg  lady,  returned  to  Ger- 
many with  her  three-year-old  boy.  He  was  given  a 
German  collegiate  education,  which  inflamed  his  inher- 
ited British  and  Hamburgian  spirit  of  independence  to 
such  angry  rebellion  that  it  gave  rise  to  the  precious 
series  of  songs,  "Moderne  Jugend"  (Modern  Youth). 

*A  literary  study,  by  Gabriele  Reuter.  Translated  from  "Die 
Gesellschaft." 

295 


296  Appendix. 

Studies  in  Leipzig,  a  sojourn  in  Berlin,  travels  in 
Scotland,  England,  Spain,  and  France,  gave  the  young 
man  a  general  idea  of  the  contemporary  state  of  Euro- 
pean civilization.  Now  Mackay  lives  mostly  in  Ziirich. 

It  is  characteristic  of  the  poet  that  birth  and  conditions 
made  a  cosmopolitan  of  him  long  before  he  declared  him- 
self one  on  principle.  On  what  country,  indeed,  should 
he  bestow  his  patriotic  sentiments  ?  He  belongs  to  that 
class  of  men  who  are  foreigners  everywhere.  Notwith- 
standing his  extraction  and  his  name,  he  cannot  be  classed 
with  the  English  singers.  Despite  his  perfect  mastery 
of  our  language,  he  is  in  a  certain  sense  also  not  a  Ger- 
man poet.  To  explain  this  statement,  it  is  sufficient  to 
point,  in  contrast  to  him,  to  Bleibtreu  and  Wildenbruch. 
In  their  excellences  and  in  their  failings  these  are  genu- 
ine Germans ;  with  all  their  differences  they  are  one  in 
their  enthusiasm  for  the  spirit  of  nationalism.  This 
element  is  wholly  foreign  to  Mackay ;  yes,  he  is  directly 
hostile  to  it.  At  a  time  when  the  spirit  of  patriotism 
dominates  public  opinion,  we  shall  have  to  look  to  this 
circumstance  for  one  of  the  reasons  that  will,  for  a  long 
time  to  come,  prevent  the  recognition  of  Mackay  among 
the  better  class  of  people. 

That  the  poet,  however,  is  not  without  a  great  measure 
of  warm  love  for  his  native  land,  for  the  soil  on  which 
the  child  first  enjoyed  the  sun,  the  air,  and  worldly 
beauty,  he  has  demonstrated  by  his  first  work,  "  Die 
Kinder  des  Hochlands,  eine  Geschichte  aus  Schottlands 
Bergen  "  (The  Children  of  the  Highlands ;  a  Story  of 
the  Mountains  of  Scotland).  Mackay  also  paid  a  deli- 
cate tribute  of  youthful  gratitude  to  our  classics  for  the 
fructification  of  his  poetical  genius  in  a  small  volume  of 
"Thuringer  Lieder"  (Thuringian  Songs). 

In  Ilmenau  he  finds  a  melodious  echo  of  the  immortal 
strain :  "  Ueber  alien  Gipfeln  ist  Ruh."  And  with  a  sense 
of  power  native  to  him  also,  he  leaves  the  places  dedicated 
to  the  memory  of  past  greatness  with  the  exclamation :  — . 

.  .  .  Doch  ich  trage  voll  von  Hoffen 
Eine  Welt  in  mir  mit  fort. 

All  honor  to  the  enthusiasm  for  Goethe  and  Schiller ; 
to  English  poets  —  Byron,  Shelley,  Swinburne  —  Mac- 


Appendix.  297 

kay  seems  to  be  still  more  indebted  for  the  form  of 
expression. 

His  own  world  is  first  opened  to  us  in  the  "Dich- 
tungen"  (Poems),  published  in  1886. 

A  charming,  youthful  world ! 

Aside  from  a  number  of  pictures  of  life  seized  with 
the  intuition  of  the  genuine  poet  ("Unschuldig  verur- 
teilt,"  Innocently  Condemned,  "  Martha,"  and  "  Einsames 
Sterben,"  Lonely  Dying),  the  book  depicts  the  natural 
feelings  of  a  youth  just  past  boyhood.  The  love-songs 
bear  the  unmistakable  stamp  of  the  alike  visionary  and 
transitory  inclinations  of  the  young  student.  The  poem 
"  G-liickliche  Fahrt"  (Happy  Journey)  describes  the  pain 
of  the  mother  on  the  departure  of  her  son  into  the  world. 
The  feelings  of  a  mother's  heart  in  this  heavy  hour  are 
expressed  with  such  tender  truth  that  one  is  led  to  infer 
a  specially  intimate  relation  existing  between  mother  and 
son.  Is  it  the  unconsciously  exhaled,  the  unconsciously 
inhaled  influence  of  a  filially  loved  woman  which  later 
gave  the  man  the  power  of  noble  form,  the  pure  feeling 
which  Mackay  always  manifests  when  he  treats  of  the 
most  difficult  themes  with  free  inspiration  ? 

In  the  "  Dichtungen  "  all  the  qualities  of  his  individu- 
ality are  already  to  be  found :  the  inclination  to  the 
crass,  the  weird,  the  passionately  fanatical  hatred  of  all 
tyrannical  power,  and  coupled  with  it  a  deep  soul-life, 
a  love  for  nature  which  tracks  its  most  hidden  beauties, 
a  power  which  knows  how  to  reflect  the  finest  shades  of 
that  indefinable  something  which  we  call  mood.  Above 
all,  Mackay  possesses  feeling  and  language  for  human 
suffering  which  give  him  a  place  beside  the  greatest 
singers  of  the  world's  woe. 

But  all  this  is  so  far  only  indicated,  just  as  one  recog- 
nizes the  features  of  the  grown-up  man  in  an  old  photo- 
graph of  a  child. 

The  "Dichtungen"  do  not  yet  contain  anything  that 
good  fathers  and  mothers,  cultured  aunts,  and  loyal  citi- 
zens could  not  pardon  to  a  fiery  and  aspiring  young 
talent.  The  lightnings  play  in  it,  but  the  storm  may 
yet  turn  into  a  gentle,  beneficent  country  rain. 

The  mutterings  of  the  thunder  become  more  ominous 
in  the  social  poem,  "  Anna  parata  fero,"  which  appeared 


298  Appendix. 

in  1887.     It  is  quite  likely  that  it  cost  Mackay  many  a 
friend  and  patron.     There  indeed  flames  a  kindling  force 
in  the  melodious  verses  which  far  surpasses  anything  . 
that  the  poet  has  hitherto  accomplished;  but  for  that 
very  reason  they  are  also  doubly  dangerous. 

With  this  song  he  takes  up  the  weapons,  not  again  to 
lay  them  down ;  he  becomes  a  clear-headed  champion  of 
the  rights  of  the  oppressed ;  he  calls  himself  the  spokes- 
man of  liberty. 

Between  the  works  reviewed,  to  which  are  to  be  added 
an  attempt  at  a  tragedy,  "Anna  Hermsdorf,"  and  the 
novelistic  studies  "Schatten"  (Shadows),  and  Mackay 's 
later  works  lies  an  important  period.  Evidently  we  are 
here  in  the  presence  of  one  of  those  mysterious  turning- 
points  which  occur  in  the  development  of  every  superior 
mind,  and  in  which  such  abrupt  changes  seem  to  take 
place  within  it  as  in  the  verdure  of  the  earth  after  cer- 
tain moist,  warm  spring  nights.  Indeed,  if  everything 
becomes  suddenly  green,  it  is  because  the  buds  were 
ready  to  burst.  In  the  year  1888  Mackay  published, 
through  Baumert  and  Ronge,  in  Grossenhain  and  Leip- 
zig, a  collection  of  novels,  "Moderne  Stoffe"  (Modern 
Themes),  and  a  second  volume  of  poems.  The  latter  he 
called  "Fortgang."  At  the  same  time  two  books  ap- 
peared at  Schabelitz's  in  Zurich,  anonymously,  "  Helene  " 
and  "Sturm"  (Storm).  John  Henry  Mackay  very  soon 
confessed  himself  the  author. 

Here  we  see  an  astonishingly  rich  harvest,  which 
seems  impossible  to  have  ripened  in  a  single  year.  Those 
must  have  been  high-water  marks  of  life,  of  creative 
power ! 

The  four  books  belong  together,  although  each  one  is 
in  form  an  independent  -whole. 

The  promise,  Arma  parata  fero  !  is  kept. 

What  confusedly  dawns  on  others  from  distant  realms, 
stands  before  the  clairvoyant  eye  of  the  prophet  in  clear, 
proximate  reality.  And  he  measures  the  present  by  the 
ideal  of  a  liberty -illumined  future.  He  dares  see  that 
which  men  must  live,  and  is  stronger  than  the  Schil- 
lerian  youth  before  the  picture  of  Sais.  —  The  sight  of 
truth  has  not  paralyzed  him.  He  finds  powerful  words 
to  proclaim  to  all  the  world  what  one-half  of  mankind 


Appendix.  299 

must  suffer  that  the  rest  may  enjoy,  in  order  to  arouse 
from  lazy  indulgence  and  dull  resignation,  to  terrify  and 
to  encourage. 

Characteristic  of  this  epoch  is  the  epilogue  with  which 
"  Fortgang  "  closes  :  — 

"  Ereudig  kampfend  bis  zum  Ziele  1 " 
Freund,  das  sind  ja  Worte  nur. 
Nicht  mit  leeren  Tonen  spiele, 
Willst  du  folgen  klarer  Spur. 

Wann  hat  je  ein  Ziel  ein  Streben, 
Wenn  es  schrankenlos  die  Welt 
Seinem  eignen  kurzen  Leben 
Ktihn  und  kraftig  unterstellt  ? 

Und  wozu  ein  Kampf  auf  Erden 
Wenn  er  nicht  ein  Ziel  gewinnt : 
Dass  wir  Alle  froher  werden, 
Als  wir  waren,  als  wir  sind  ? 

"  Freudig  "  —  kampft  der  Wahnbethorte 
Und  der  Knecht  auf  blinder  Spur. 
Wer  des  Mitleids  Stimmen  horte 
Kampft  in  herben  Schmerzen  nur. 

Ueber  Sterbende  und  Leichen 
Wird  vielleicht  sein  Wiinschen  gehn, 
Und  sein  Ziel  —  er  wird  es  weichen 
Weit  und  immer  weiter  sehn. 

The  description  of  the  fates  of  women,  as  illustrated 
in  the  characters  contained  in  "Moderne  Stoffe"  and 
"  Helene,"  is  born  of  an  infinite  compassion. 

These  girls  have  nothing  of  daemonic  sensuality,  noth- 
ing of  the  sentimentality  of  "fallen  innocence"  with 
which  most  writers  love  to  invest  such  figures.  They 
are  poor,  troubled,  trembling,  despairing  slaves  of  the  sin 
of  others.  It  seems  to  me  it  might  do  many  a  young 
lady  of  the  bourgeoisie  a  great  deal  of  good  to  read  the 
story  of  this  Hedi,  this  Maxl',  and  the  dance-hall  singer 
Helene,  in  order  to  put  aside  her  haughty  scorn  of  such 
poor,  dust-covered  creatures. 

Mackay  has  the  gift  of  drawing  the  girls  of  the  com- 
mon people  very  attractively  with  the  simplest  means. 
The  story  of  the  brave  little  waitress  Maxl'  and  her 
tragic  defeat  is  a  gem  of  modern  narrative  art.  The 


300  Appendix. 

cold  scorn  with  which  the  well-bred  hero  Hans  Grtitz- 
meier  is  described  leads  us  to  expect  still  more  of  the 
author  in  the  domain  of  satire. 

Larger  in  conception,  more  valuable  by  its  form,  and 
more  overpowering  by  its  glowing  passion  is  the  epic 
poem  "  Helene,"  written  in  blank  verse. 

It  treats  of  the  love  of  a  young  man  of  the  upper 
classes  for  a  girl  who  disappears  after  a  chance  acquaint- 
ance. And  then  he  finds  her  again  in  the  sad  calling 
referred  to  above,  which  she  took  up  not  by  choice,  but 
into  which  deplorable  conditions  drove  her. 

Love,  love,  nothing  but  love !  The  exultation  of  young 
joy,  sighs  of  languishing  desire,  wrestling  with  despair 
and  newly-awakening  pain  of  hope  to  the  rage  of  the 
wildest  passion !  And  then  separation  and  her  downfall 

—  worse  than  death  —  and  a  curse  shrieked  into  the  air 
by  the  man  who  sees  her  drifting  down  the  dark  stream 

—  ever  farther  and  farther  —  and  who  stands   on   the 
shore  and  cannot  help  her. 

What  shall  I  say  of  the  beauty  of  its  lines,  of  its 
glow  of  passion,  of  its  changing  moods,  of  its  climax  ?  — 
Whoever  has  lived  through  the  heights  and  the  depths 
of  a  great  passion,  will  feel  by  the  revival  of  all  painful 
memories  how  true  this  book  is ;  and  whoever  does  not 
know  them  —  let  him  not  read  "Helene,"  for  its  con- 
tents will  appear  as  madness  to  him. 

The  exception  might  be  taken  that  the  object  of  such 
a  grand  feeling  is  little  worthy  of  it — but  when  did  love 
ever  go  by  the  rule  of  middle-class  respectability  ?  Pre- 
sumably the  Levites  and  other  distinguished  personages 
of  the  people  of  Israel  in  their  time  also  did  not  consider 
the  shepherdess,  to  whom  the  royal  singer,  Solomon, 
dedicated  his  song,  worthy  of  him.  And  yet  it  was  the 
song  of  songs,  and  Shulamite  became  the  symbol  of 
the  heavenly  bride.  Every  age  has  its  typical  heroine. 
The  Middle  Ages,  when  feudalism  flourished,  sang  of 
queens ;  Beatrice  and  Laura  were  at  least  noble  ladies. 
When  the  bourgeoisie  recalled  its  rights,  and  the  clouds 
of  the  revolution  of  1789  rose  on  the  horizon,  Lotte,  the 
pure  middle-class  maiden,  inflamed  all  hearts  with  emo- 
tion. Helene,  the  filth-covered,  innocently  ruined  prole- 
taire  girl  —  will  she  not  be  the  heroine  of  the  threatening 
future  ? 


Appendix.  301 

That  the  heart  of  a  son  of  the  ruling  caste,  the  caste 
which  contributed  no  small  part  in  causing  her  ruin, 
breaks  for  her,  gives  the  poem  the  effect  of  deep  tragedy. 

"  I  have  died,  but  I  will  live ! "  Mackay  lets  his  hero 
say,  after  he  has  resigned  youth  and  happiness.  These 
words  are  fraught  with  a  far-reaching  significance. 

A  number  of  the  men  who  are  to-day  undermining  the 
bourgeoisie  with  their  pencil  and  their  pen,  with  their 
word  and  their  brush,  who  are  bringing  to  honor  the 
rights  of  the  fourth  estate,  be  it  through  the  artistic 
representation  of  its  life,  be  it  through  unequivocal  battle 
cries,  are  the  defiant,  spirited  children  of  the  fat  and 
hoary  bourgeoisie  itself.  Such  is  the  Nemesis  of  uni- 
versal history.  Caesar  died  by  the  hand  of  Brutus  —  the 
absolutism  of  the  Catholic  Church  was  overthrown  by  a 
monk,  —  and  Mirabeau  was  a  descendant  of  the  French 
aristocracy.  Almost  always  the  insurgents  have  been 
nourished  and  equipped  for  their  work  of  destruction 
with  the  best  forces  of  the  declining  ruling  classes. 

The  naturalistic,  social  artists  and  writers  of  the 
present  time,  too,  have  inherited  from  the  bourgeoisie 
the  results  of  science  and  the  refined  spirit  which  enables 
them,  now  that  the  age  has  opened  their  eyes,  to  feel 
the  sufferings  of  their  brothers  so  keenly  and  to  depict 
them  so  powerfully. 

A  poet  who  with  a  creative  imagination  and  the  heart 
of  a  lover  of  mankind  has  made  the  studies  that  flowered 
in  "  Moderne  Stoffe "  and  in  "  Helene  "  must  be  carried 
away  to  mad  rebellion. 

After  Mackay  could  write  "Helene,"  he  must  write 
"  Sturm."  And  the  poems  of  "  Fortgang  "  are  only  the 
quieter  intervals  between  the  hurricane,  the  dying-away 
of  it. 

Mackay  has  broken  with  his  past  and  with  the  old 
world.  In  Titanic  wrath  he  shakes  at  the  foundations 
on  which  society  imagines  that  it  lives  securely.  With 
sublime  courage  he  hurls  mighty  war  songs  against  a 
hated  order  of  the  world. 

Of  course  the  book  was  forbidden. 

It  is  the  right  of  civil  society  to  defend  itself  by  all 
means  against  an  enemy  who  preaches  the  overthrow  of 
all  existing  things  in  such  magnificent  language. 


302  Appendix. 

The  melancholy  gloom  which  broods  over  the  songs  of 
the  "Fortgang,"  the  lamentations  on  the  frigid  loneli- 
ness in  which  the  truth-seekers  dwell,  are  only  now  com- 
prehensible. We  understand  that,  with  this  poet  who  is 
too  deep,  and  with  all  his  pity  too  proud  to  give  himself 
over  to  the  quickly  changing  favors  of  the  masses,  and 
who  has  forever  broken  with  the  applause  of  his  own 
caste,  they  are  no  mere  poetical  figure,  but  bitter  reality. 

"  Fortgang "  is  a  serious,  rich  book,  a  treasure  for 
uncommon  people.  The  solitary  observer  acquires  a 
keen  glance  for  the  events  about  him,  in  which  he 
no  longer  takes  an  active  part.  The  results  of  such 
observations  are  turned  into  bright,  psychologically  in- 
teresting little  sketches  by  the  poet  of  the  "  Fortgang." 
Of  these  I  enumerate  the  best:  "Ehe"  (Marriage),  "Die 
Knechtin"  (The  Hired  Girl),  "Der  Wahre"  (The  True 
Man),  "  Fruhlingswind "  (Spring  Breezes),  "Liebe" 
(Love),  <(In  der  Gesellschaft "  (In  Society). 

There  is  in  Mackay  a  peculiar  blending  of  a  clear, 
sceptical  reason  with  an  imagination  soaring  into  the 
realms  of  the  unknowable.  His  phantasies  sometimes 
border  on  the  morbid.  Nevertheless,  when  he  tries  to 
banish  them,  the  poet  shows  himself  perhaps  at  his  best. 

A  year  after  the  four  books  just  reviewed,  Mackay 
published  a  small  volume  of  translations  from  English 
and  American  poets.  It  contains  much  that  is  beautiful 
and  successfully  done ;  nevertheless  —  with  the  excep- 
tion of  Joaquin  Miller's  "  Arizonian  "  —  I  cannot  rate 
them  as  highly  as  Mackay 's  own  poetical  productions. 

In  the  meantime  Mackay  made  an  acquaintance  which 
had  the  greatest  influence  on  him.  The  new  edition  of 
"Sturm"  of  1890,  which  remained  unmolested  by  the 
police,  is  dedicated  to  the  memory  of  Max  Stirner. 

The  highly  significant,  now  almost  forgotten  book  of 
this  philosopher,  "Der  Einzige  und  sein  Eigenthum," 
must  exert  a  saving  influence  on  natures  who  are  sick 
with  an  excess  of  the  love  of  humanity  and  who  yet 
understand  that  the  sacrifice  of  their  own  personality  not 
only  does  no  good  to  any  one,  but  leads  to  deception  and 
hypocrisy.  Who  has  ever  quite  overcome  his  own  self  ? 

At  bottom  every  largely  endowed  character  with  artis- 
tic talent  is  an  individualist.  If  he  wishes  to  be  unusu- 


Appendix.  303 

ally  true  to  himself  and  others,  he  will  openly  say  so ; 
and  if  he  is  at  the  same  a  thinker,  he  will  try  to  put  it 
into  a  system.  Stirner,  with  his  luminous  demonstration 
of  the  right  of  egoism,  could  only  offer  to  Mackay  in  a 
connected  way  what  the  latter  had  long  ago  experienced 
and  even  already  expressed  in  his  writings  here  and  there. 

The  enthusiastic  gratitude  with  which  he  recognizes 
the  master  only  shows  that  much-abused  egoism  does 
not  necessarily  make  its  disciples  incapable  of  every  so- 
called  noble  emotion. 

Mackay  says  in  the  preface  to  the  second  edition  of 
"  Sturm  "  :  — 

Und  langsam  fand  ich  mich.    Em  Jahr  zerrann 
In  letzten  Kampfen,  bis  ich  mich  gewann, 
Vom  Nebel-Schleier  war  ich  dicht  umhtillt, 
Von  Rufen  aus  der  Tiefe  wild  umbrtillt, 
Von  Lockungen  der  Hohen  suss  umklungen, 
Hohen  und  Tiefen  habe  ich  bezwungen. 

It  is  very  probable  that  the  poet  of  "  Sturm "  was 
approached  by  the  temptation  of  taking  an  active  part 
in  the  social  movement  of  our  day. 

But  Mackay  no  longer  believes  in  Utopias.  As  long 
as  men  do  not  make  themselves  inwardly  free  of  illu- 
sions and  prejudices  of  all  kinds,  outward  liberty  will  be 
of  little  use  to  them. 

Wenn  Ihr  die  Starkren  geworden  seid, 
So  seid  Ihr  in  Eurem  Rechte, 

he  exclaims  to  the  dreamers. 

The  idea  that  Socialists  and  Communists  might  pre- 
pare a  happy  state  for  the  people  he  opposes  in.  the 
strongest  terms  in  the  following  verses  :  — 

—  Wo  ist  dann  Freiheit  noch  und  wo  Entfaltung, 
Wenn  Keiner  sich  mehr  an  dem  Andren  misst  ? 

Was  Staat  jetzt  heisst,  wird  dann  Gemeinde  heissen, 
Der  Einzelne  wird  mehr  und  mehr  umengt, 
Ihm  ist  versagt,  sich  los-  und  freizureissen, 
Er  ist  in  —  Rosen-Ketten  eingezwangt ! 

Die  "  Liebe  "  breitet  ihres  Mitleids  Schwingen 
Ueber  der  Tage  unentschiedene  Schlacht ! 
Sie  lahmt  dein  Leben,  meines  Geistes  Ringen  ; 
Mein  Lachen  und  dein  Weinen  sind  bewacht. 


304  Appendix. 

Und  bleigrau-5de,  triibe  Langeweile 
Sinkt  auf  die  Welt  herab  ein  Leichentuch, 
Erfiillung  heinmt  des  letzten  Wunsches  Eile 
Und  schliesst  des  Lebens  unverstandnes  Buch.  . 

These  words  will  hardly  be  pardoned  to  Mackay  by 
the  people  whom  they  hit. 

Thus  he  is  separated  from  all  parties,  and  it  will  be 
his  fate  to  be  much  hated  and  little  understood.  He 
stands  alone,  as  is  his  will,  single  and  strong. 

The  last  work  with  which  John  Henry  Mackay  has  pre- 
sented us  bears  the  name  "  Das  starke  Jahr."  (Schabelitz, 
Zurich,  1890.) 

The  dedication  of  the  poem  reads  :  — 

Dem  gehassten  Gefahrten  gehore  sein  Werk. 
"  Sturm  "  gives  us  the  answer  thereto :  — 

Das  1st  der  Kampf,  den  allnachtlich 
Bevor  das  Dunkel  zerrinnt, 
Einsam  und  gramvoll  auskampft 
Des  Jahrhunderts  verlorenes  Kind. 

Or  is  it  that  gloomy  friend  to  whom  the  poet  speaks  :  — 
Reich  mir  die  Hand,  meiner  Jugend  Genosse,  gewaltiger  Schmerz  ! 

The  book  consists  of  brilliant  variations  of  the 
theme,  "  Der  Einzige  und  sein  Eigenthum."  Stirner 
would  be  pleased  with  the  fruits  of  his  teachings.  But 
the  harvest  is  no  longer  his ;  it  has  become  Mackay's 
own. 

Only  he  alone  —  an  idealist  of  materialism  —  could 
write  such  deep  fancies  on  the  right  of  the  individual. 
It  requires  Mackay's  courage  of  the  truth  to  draw  the 
last  conclusions  of  one's  philosophy  with  such  a  weirdly 
grand  humor  as  is  found  in  the  poem  "  Krahengekrachz  " 
(The  Cawing  of  the  Crows)  —  to  illustrate  its  dark  side 
by  a  picture  like  "  Der  Trinker  "  (The  Drinker). 

Some  songs  in  which  the  wrestling  with  the  un- 
speakable is  not  yet  crowned  by  success,  or  which  refer 
directly  to  experiences  which  the  reader  does  not  know, 
and  which  for  this  reason,  despite  his  best  efforts,  remain 
obscure  to  him,  might  have  better  been  omitted  by  the 
author.  The  fertile  loneliness  of  the  poet,  the  changing 


Appendix.  305 

moods  of  the  creative  spirit,  are  sung  with  wonderful 
melody.  Mackay  finds  touching  expression  also  for  wild 
pleasure  and  the  eternally  wakeful  longing  after  happi- 
ness. 

How  beautiful  is  the  song,  "  Fruhlingsnacht "  (Spring 
Night)  !  But  little  space  is  accorded  to  love.  It  is  the 
mature  man  who  is  talking  here,  —  the  wise  man,  who 
introduces  us  like  his  pupil  Walther  to  life's"  opulent 
feast,  and  whose  "  final  perception  "  of  the  world  is  — 

Einst  wahnte  ich  sie  zu  verachten  — 
Ich  verachte  sie  nicht  mehr  — 
Ich  kann  nur  noch  betrachten  — 
Ich  schaue  um  mich  her  — 

Ich  betrachte  das  Sein  wie  ein  Haben, 
Von  dem  kein  Teil  ich  bin  — 
Ich  bin  mem  —  ich  kann  mich  geben 
Nicht  mehr  den  Andern  hin. 

To  what  purpose  any  further  quotations  ? 

Whoever  has  recognized  how  rotten  the  pillars  are 
which  we  commonly  call  "  ideals  "  when  the  experiences 
of  reality  brutally  rise  against  them  —  and  who  at  the 
same  time  carries  within  him  the  unquenchable  thirst 
for  pondering  on  the  riddles  of  human  being,  the  great 
fate  of  the  world  —  will  find  much  in  this  book  to  move 
him  and  lead  him  by  a  rare  perfection  of  form  into  a 
realm  of  serious,  true  beauty.  "  Das  starke  Jahr  "  will 
not  capture  the  masses,  but  whoever  has  mastered  it 
will  find  in  it  a  true  friend,  and  its  influence  will  grow 
in  the  course  of  time. 

On  the  last  page  of  "  Das  starke  Jahr  "  the  publisher 
announces  the  early  appearance  of  the  novel,  "Die  Anar- 
chisten,"  by  John  Henry  Mackay.  With  it  the  poet 
appears  for  the  first  time  before  the  public  with  a  prose 
work  of  this  kind.  One  is  curious  to  know  how  such  an 
independent,  courageous,  and  conscientious  thinker  will 
treat  the  question  of  the  Anarchistic  movement.  And 
it  will  be  interesting  to  see  whether  the  lyric  poet,  the 
novelist,  hSs  grown  into  the  mastery  of  the  great  picture 
of  civilization. 


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